


The Noble Heart

by All_I_need



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Don't copy to another site, Friends to Lovers, Grief, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mary Morstan was not a good person, Minor Character Death, Pining Sherlock, Sharing a Bed, Sherlock being supportive, lots of late-night conversations, s3 fix-it, slow-burn, unapologetic fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:53:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 98,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25510885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/All_I_need/pseuds/All_I_need
Summary: When John's wedding gets horribly derailed on the big day itself, it falls to Sherlock to help him pick up the pieces, even if it means letting others do the sleuthing for once. But as the police embarks on what looks like a simple murder investigation, the case soon turns into something else entirely as more and more details about Mary's life emerge. But Mary wasn't the only person keeping secrets and Sherlock knows it's only a matter of time until his own will come to light.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 807
Kudos: 684





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> 10 years ago today, BBC Sherlock aired for the very first time. I did not see it. I had no clue it existed and wouldn't learn about it until just about 6 months before the end of the great Reichenbach Hiatus. Despite that, today is a milestone for this fandom and the many amazing people in it. Thank you for the meta and the fanfics, the memes and the videos, the parodies, playlists, fanarts, rants, crackfics and wrong quote tumblr posts. Thank you for the discourse, the mutual excited screaming, and everything else that made this fandom my online home. Thank you most of all to the lovely people who became my friends and to the fantastic experiences I got and continue to have thanks to all of you.
> 
> Here's to another 10 years at least.

The silence was the worst part.

Weddings were not supposed to be silent. There was the organ, a priest droning on, bridesmaids whispering and giggling, people talking and laughing, a bride and groom exchanging their vows, applause and cheers.

He had researched weddings extensively and silence definitely didn’t play any part in them unless it was of the hushed, reverent sort.

There was no reverence here.

There had been screams and sobs somewhere in the distance but then someone had closed a door somewhere and everything had gone silent. He didn’t know what was going on outside but he also didn’t care. For once, his curiosity was strangely unimportant, a fleeting thing, distantly acknowledged and shoved aside, irrelevant.

He had never wanted this to happen.

Next to him, John was silent and that was worst of all.

Silent, unmoving, barely even breathing. Sherlock could not stand it.

But what was there for him to do? The world had gone off its predetermined course about half an hour ago and now there was nothing left but the blood on their hands and a dead body on the floor.

He had never wanted this to happen.

Over the past weeks, he had spent countless hours imagining what could have been, what might yet come to pass if only somehow a miracle would happen. If only, somehow, the wedding might yet be prevented. He had lain awake in his bed, staring at the dark ceiling, imagining countless ways to stop it. Earlier this morning, just after their arrival at the church, he had fled to the bathroom for three carefully calculated minutes of reprieve, begging all the gods he didn't believe in to put a stop to this. He had come with so many potential scenarios for how it could all play out.

None of them had been this. None of them had come even close to this.

He had never wanted this to happen.

Next to him, John drew a breath and his next exhale turned into a choked noise, shattering the bubble of silence as he gasped.

Sherlock could see his hands shake out of the corner of his eye. When he spoke, his voice wavered.

“ _Mary_...”

Sherlock had never wanted this to happen.


	2. Chapter 2

They got a random officer to conduct the interviews in the administration building behind the church. Lestrade was right there but no one wanted to give people an opportunity to claim bias, so Lestrade would not be taking the lead on this one, at least for now.

Sherlock approved. He didn’t want John to look at the inspector and know that he had read the autopsy report, had seen close-ups of the body of his (almost) wife. Just like Sherlock himself would never look at them. For John’s sake. And for his own, for fear of what he might deduce about things that had happened before everything had gone to hell.

The officer cleared his throat and Sherlock’s attention snapped back to him.

“Mr Holmes. I asked where you were at the time of the incident.”

‘ _Incident’_ Sherlock thought. He blinked at the man. “I was with John in the old vestry while we waited for the last guests to arrive.”

“John would be the groom?”

“Yes.” Sherlock said and thought _‘Obviously’_.

“And you were there the entire time?”

“From 9:27am until 10:53am, when Janine began screaming.”

“And Janine is...?”

“The head bridesmaid,” Sherlock supplied.

The officer nodded and made a note of this. “You are very precise about the time you spent in that room.”

Sherlock gave him a look. “You do know who I am, don’t you?”

“I have heard of you, yes,” the officer confirmed.

Sherlock nodded. “Then I’m sure I won’t have to explain how it is possible for me to remember the precise time I spend anywhere. Just as I can tell that you’d really rather be with your heavily pregnant wife and are trying to quit smoking for the sake of your child - without much success.”

The officer blinked at him. “That’s right. But I’m not the one under suspicion of murder.”

Sherlock snorted. “Neither am I.”

“You don’t think you’re a suspect?”

“Oh, I’m sure _you_ think I am,” Sherlock said. “But there are two important factors standing in the way of this little theory. Firstly, I didn’t do it. Secondly, I had neither the opportunity nor the inclination to do it.”

“Is that right,” the officer said. “Tell me what happened, then.”

“Do you want the version with or without my own deductions?” Sherlock asked because experience had taught him to double-check.

“Let’s go for the details,” the officer said, just as Sherlock had expected. The police loved having professionals at the scene. They made great eyewitnesses. No one who knew him would doubt his ability to re-create the entire thing down to the placement of the napkins if asked to do so.

Sherlock launched into the minutiae of one hour and twenty-six minutes of being (mostly) alone with John Watson on the day of his wedding. The precise time-line was stuck in his head and would likely remain there for a long time to come. Perhaps forever. At the time, he had wanted to cement every last little second with John into his mind palace so he would never forget what it had been like. And John had been so busy looking at his watch every couple of minutes, anxious and eager. Sherlock carefully edited his account of the morning to avoid all mention of how he himself had felt about this.

“... at 10:09 am I opened the door a bit to get some fresh air into the room and so we could keep an eye on the guests. Detective Inspector Lestrade sat in the second pew from the front, on the left side of the church, and nodded at me. He had a direct line of sight into the room.”

“Into the small sliver of the room you claim to have been in the entire time,” the officer corrected. “The room that has another exit.”

“Yes,” Sherlock confirmed. “DI Lestrade had a direct line of sight into the room and at the large mirror on the back wall, which allowed him to see the other door you mentioned. He spent most of his time sitting there trying to catch John’s eye and give him a thumbs up. I assure you, he would have noticed if either John or I had disappeared.”

“You didn’t go to the loo at any point?” the officer asked.

Sherlock shook his head. “We were separated for five minutes after our arrival when I went to the bathroom, but not once we entered the old vestry.”

“One and a half hours in that room and you didn’t feel the need to relieve yourself?”

“I have excellent control over my transport,” Sherlock said, then noticed the officer’s confused expression. “My body, that is. I tend not to eat or drink when I’m busy with more important things. Such as organising a wedding.”

The officer eyed Sherlock’s thin form and nodded. “Fine. So you were in that room the entire time.”

“As I said.” Sherlock glanced at his watch. “Can we speed this up a little? I need to get back to John.”

“Mr Watson -”

“ _Dr.,_ ” Sherlock bit out.

“ _Dr._ Watson is being interviewed himself.”

If this was supposed to reassure him, it missed the mark. John was in no state to be interviewed. The last time Sherlock had seen him, thirty-eight minutes ago, John had barely been aware of where he was, let alone people talking to him. The idea of him answering questions seemed preposterous.

Sherlock made himself relax back into his chair. “Fine. Let’s get on with this then.”

The officer poised his pen. “At what point did you first become aware that something had happened?”

“When the bridesmaid started screaming at 10:53 am. We were just about to make our way out into the old church nave when the screaming started.”

“And where was Miss Janine at that time?”

“In the vestry on the other end of the building, helping Mary with her preparations just as I was helping John with his.”

“And you did not have any contact with her or the bride until then?”

“We said hello when she arrived but were both too busy to stop and chitchat,” Sherlock said.

“And that was the first time you met her?”

“Yes.”

“What was your impression of her?”

Sherlock took a breath. “She works as a personal assistant to a CEO, is originally from Ireland but hasn’t been back in a couple of years, most likely due to her strained relationship with her parents. She has an older sibling, most likely a brother, and spends her free weekends dog sitting and shopping. And before you ask, she has likely never held a gun in her hand in her entire life.”

The officer frowned. “I thought you didn’t have time for a chat.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at him. “Do you want to drag someone else in here for me to deduce them in five seconds or can you just take my word for it when I say that the twenty seconds it took for John to introduce us were quite enough?”

Apparently the officer decided to let this slide and get on with the interview instead. All the better - Sherlock was getting impatient.

“So you heard the bridesmaid screaming at 10:54 am BST. What happened then?”

“We ran out of the room and towards the source of the noise.”

“You did not decide to wait until someone informed you of what was happening?”

“Of course not,” Sherlock snapped. “John is an army veteran _and_ a doctor and I’m a consulting detective. It’s our _job_ to run towards screaming people. Have they taught you nothing in your training or is it simply a case of none of it sticking?”

The officer ignored that, too. “So you ran towards the noise. How quickly would you say you arrived at the scene?”

“It took us 15.3 seconds from the moment we heard the first scream until we arrived in the room on the other side of the church. We are fast runners.”

“And when you arrived at the scene, what did you see?”

Sherlock didn’t have to think back to answer the question. The scene kept replaying in his head over and over. “We burst into the room and there was Janine, standing about three steps away from the door, screaming her head off. The window at the far side of the room was open with the curtains billowing in the wind so it took us a moment to see what was wrong. When the wind died down and the curtains returned to their normal position, we saw Mary on the floor in front of the large mirror.”

“Describe her to me,” the officer said, glanced at him and added. “What she looked like, I mean, not her personal history.”

Frowning, Sherlock replied. “She was on her back, one arm stretched over her head, the other flung to the side. I can’t be one hundred percent precise about the position of her legs due to the wedding dress obscuring my view. There was a little footstool in front of her - she must have stood on it before she fell.”

“What else?”

“Oh, nothing important,” Sherlock snapped, now quite fed up with the officer. “Excepting the bullet holes in her forehead and chest, she looked the picture of perfect health, really.”

*****

_Unseeing green eyes staring up at him, not a strand of her blond hair out of place, mouth open in a silent ‘oh’ of surprise._

“Dr. Watson? Dr. Watson, can you hear me?”

John blinked and the image swam out of focus, replaced by the serious, sympathetic face of a middle-aged police officer.

“Dr Watson, can you answer some questions for me?”

He stared and stared and tried to catch up with what was happening. Questions ... the police had questions. Of course. His wife was dead. No, not wife. Bride.

A noise escaped him. It didn’t sound entirely human.

The police officer seemed to think so, too.

“You have been given a mild sedative,” she told him gently. “It may make it a bit difficult to focus.”

He could focus perfectly. Just not on the here and now.

There was something ... something he needed to know. He looked around. It was just him and the officer. Someone was missing.

“Sherlock,” he said. “Where is Sherlock?” He struggled to his feet. “I need to find him, I need to ...”

He didn’t know what he needed. To see him. Just see him.

_Unseeing bluegreygreen eyes staring up at him, blood in dark curls and on pale skin and on the pavement._

John shuddered.

“Please sit down, Dr Watson,” the officer urged, reaching for his shoulder to press him back into his chair. “Mr Holmes is currently being interviewed by one of my colleagues. You can see him when we are done.”

Not dead. Sherlock wasn’t dead. That was good, wasn’t it? Someone else was dead, though. Someone important.

“Dr Watson, can you tell me what you saw when you and Mr Holmes rushed into the room and found your fiancée dead on the floor?”

Dead.

The word echoed around in his head. _Dead dead dead._

John shook his head. “I ... Mary ...”

A choked sob was wrenched from his chest by unseen hands.

It was too much. He was sitting here, in the small, dusty office of the chaplain, when he was actually supposed to stand out there in the church and make his vows.

But now he couldn’t. He couldn’t because his bride was dead and he didn’t know why.

Sherlock would know. Sherlock always knew these things. And if he didn’t, he would figure it out.

John took a shuddering breath. “I need Sherlock,” he said again. “He’ll know who ... he’ll find out. He’s good at that. Finding k-”

The word died in his mouth, overtaken by another sob.

He couldn’t think around the shock and grief and the echo of an older grief, made fresh again by the suddenness, the unexpectedness of the loss.

John started to shake.

“I need Sherlock.”

“He’s being interviewed right at this moment, Dr Watson. John. Can I call you John?” the officer said and if she thought that would calm him down, she was sadly mistaken.

“You don’t ... you don’t understand,” John gasped. “He died. He _died_. And she died. But he came back. And so maybe she can... he’ll know. He’ll ...” He broke off, another thought occurring to him. “I didn’t even check her pulse.”

“You did,” the officer said calmly. “Look at your hands. You did everything you could, John. You checked her pulse, you tried to get her to breathe, you put pressure on the wound. You did everything humanly possible.”

But she was already dead.

His wife - fiancée - bride - had already been dead by the time Janine began screaming.

John shot to his feet and stumbled forward, a hand over his mouth. The officer didn’t try to stop him this time.

*****

Sherlock was in the middle of a long-winded and forensically detailed description of the precise location of the bullet wound in Mary’s forehead when he got distracted by a commotion outside.

He was out of his chair and by the door before the officer interviewing him had time to open his mouth.

“Mr Holmes, sit down!”

“Am I under arrest?” Sherlock demanded. “No? Great. We’ll continue this at a later time, then. I need to see John. It’s been an hour and eighteen minutes.”

He wrenched open the door and strode into the hallway, just in time to see John stumble through a similar door down the hallway, a hand over his mouth. Sherlock glanced around, reached for the nearest vaguely bucket-shaped object and rushed down the hall towards him, shoving the thing - a large, empty waste bin - into John’s arms.

John began retching almost immediately.

An officer burst out of the room he had vacated. Middle-aged, happily married for eight years, just adopted a child with her wife. The deductions flowed through his mind, there and gone again. They didn’t matter. Only John mattered. John, who was currently hurling his guts up.

“What did you do to him?” Sherlock demanded, not caring how furious he sounded.

“Nothing!” The officer said defensively. “I asked him if he could tell me anything about what happened. He started asking for you and then ran out. The paramedics gave him a sedative. Perhaps that’s what-”

“He’s having a panic attack!” Sherlock snapped. “You shouldn’t have separated us. Morons.”

He shut them out and turned all his attention back to John, where it belonged. “John... it’s all right. I’m here. I’m alive. We’re going to get out of here soon, don’t worry.”

John finally stopped retching but remained bent over, gasping for air as Sherlock continued his mindless rambling. “You’ll be fine. It’ll be all right. Breathe. Just breathe. Here. Match me.”

He breathed, calm and even, and forced himself to keep his own rising panic at bay as he steered John to a chair. This had not been supposed to happen. None of it.

After minutes that felt like hours, John calmed down a little further.

Before he knew it, Sherlock found himself on his knees in front of his best friend, both hands on John’s upper arms, gaze fixed on his. “Breathe. That’s it. See? It’s okay. It’ll be okay.”

“I thought,” John gasped, “I thought you ... it all got mixed up in my head.”

“I know,” Sherlock murmured. “I’m sorry, John.”

He hesitated, then grabbed John’s hand. “Here.” He pressed it to his throat, let John feel his pulse, beating hard and steady beneath his skin, not caring about the blood still on John's hands. “Does that help?”

John nodded, fingers trembling against Sherlock’s neck, no doubt leaving red smears on his skin.

Finally, he managed to drag in a full breath and relaxed a little.

“God, Sherlock. What ... what am I going to do?”

“Breathe,” Sherlock murmured. “First, we’ll get these ridiculous interviews out of the way. As soon as they’re done asking us inane questions, they can start looking for the real killer.”

They both winced.

John slumped forward, forearms on his thighs. “Oh god. Mary ... she’s dead.”

“I know,” Sherlock said softly, hating himself for how helpless he was in the face of this. How did people do this? He didn’t know how to offer comfort, didn’t know what was too much or too little, which words were right and which ones wrong.

In the end, he stayed silent and simply let John grapple with the fact for a bit.

“Feeling better?” a soft voice interrupted.

“Go away, Graham,” he said tiredly. “We’ll get back to the interviews once John feels up for it.”

“It’s Greg,” John said softly. “His name is Greg.”

“So it is,” Lestrade agreed. “How are you holding up, John?”

“What do you think?” John asked and for the first time in over an hour, he sounded like himself. Sherlock could’ve hugged the DI for that alone, if he wasn’t glued to the spot for as long as John needed him to be there.

“I’m sorry, mate,” Lestrade said, hunching down next to them. “Listen, you two stay right here for as long as you need and I’ll just sit here next to you so I can tell the officers over there that you didn’t try to make your stories match up, all right?”

“This is a complete waste of time,” Sherlock hissed. “We didn’t do anything. We know that, you know that. Hell, even they probably know that.”

“It’s procedure,” Lestrade said, shrugging. “Doesn’t mean it isn’t bullshit.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to argue further but John put a hand on his, promptly erasing all the words from his brain.

“Leave it be,” John said hoarsely. “It is what it is.” He took another deep breath and squared his shoulders before turning to look at Lestrade. “Sorry for ... all this.”

He gestured at the waste Sherlock had abandoned beside his chair and the startled officers lingering in the hallway. “I just...”

“No need to explain,” Lestrade said. “None of this can be easy for you.”

He looked like it wasn’t easy for him, either, Sherlock thought, finally glancing at the Detective Inspector. He looked haggard and tired. This clearly wasn’t how Lestrade had wanted this day to go, either.

But soon his attention returned to John. John, who had squared his shoulders and raised his head and was now acting like a normal, functioning human being. Sherlock could see the Captain Watson steel glint in his eye and knew that John would power through the coming hours one way or another.

He wished he were as certain about his own state of mind.

Down the hall, the door was open and he saw that a medical examiner had arrived and was being ushered into the church. Sherlock noticed John’s eyes tracking the woman’s movements.

Sherlock hastily stood, the room swaying around him for a moment. Almost instantly, Lestrade put a steadying hand on his back.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock muttered. “I’m fine. Just ... let’s get this over with.”

He turned to John. “Ready?”

And John looked at him, his gaze as dead as the woman he had been about to marry, nodded and stood. “Ready.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates every Monday as per my usual schedule. Thank you all for following me down another rabbit hole ♥


	3. Chapter 3

They finished up the interviews an hour later and it was hard to tell which of the interviewing officers had drawn the shorter straw.

Sherlock, on the one hand, had given long-winded, detailed answers with a generous serving of insults and cold deductions on the side.

John, on the other hand, had answered in a distressingly remote and mono-syllabic way, in a speech-pattern usually heard at war tribunals. He also looked like death warmed over, which had made the officer asking him outright if he had killed his own bride feel like a right twat.

When they finally met again in the hallway, Sherlock took one look at John and decided to throw caution to the wind. Desperate measures were required.

He stepped forward and pulled John into a hug. It was fierce and unrelenting and the hoped John somehow got the message he was trying to convey.

‘ _I am here, we are in this together. I’m not leaving you. I will do anything you ask.’_

The words remained unspoken but he hoped John understood anyway.

To his surprise, John hugged him back with equal force. It was more contact than Sherlock could remember them ever sharing. He hoped it meant John understood. Finally, they let go and Sherlock stepped back, suddenly unsure what to do with his hands.

“Are we free to go?” John asked. “I don’t want to stay here for one more minute.”

“You can go, Dr. Watson,” the officer who had conduced his interview said. “We’ll be in touch if we have further questions.”

John nodded and turned to Sherlock. There was something desperate in his eyes. “Please, can we go home?”

“Of course,” Sherlock said. “At this time of day, traffic will be manageable. We can get you back to your flat in-”

But John was shaking his head. “No ... not ... the flat. I can’t ... I ... can we go to Baker Street?”

Sherlock’s traitorous heart performed a painful sideways lurch. Home. John wanted to go  _home_ and he meant Baker Street.

“Of course,” he said, slightly breathless. “Of course we can, John.”

The gratitude in John’s eyes was almost too much to bear. “Thank you.”

“Never for that,” Sherlock told him seriously. “You don’t ever need to thank me for that, John.”

It was him who should be grateful, after all.

*****

221b was boiling hot when they arrived but John still shivered as he stepped through the door and took off his tuxedo jacket.

Sherlock took the jacket from his hand and steered him through the kitchen. “Go take a shower, I’ll find you some clothes.”

John nodded and yawned.

“You can have my bed, if you like,” Sherlock said. “Your room is too dusty for you to stay in.”  _'You haven't lived there in almost three years'_ he didn't add.

“What about you?” John asked.

Sherlock shrugged. “I’m not tired. It’s barely afternoon, John. You’ve had a stressful couple of days and you have been up since 5 am.”

“So have you,” John argued.

“I didn’t have my wedding derailed and my fiancée murdered,” Sherlock said gently. John flinched anyway but it had needed to be said. “Sorry.”

“You’re right,” John murmured. “No, you’re right. Of course. I’ll just ...” He gestured vaguely towards the bathroom and disappeared down the hall.

For a moment, Sherlock stood in the sitting room, waiting for the bathroom door to close behind John. As soon as it had, he sprung into action.

Pictures and papers and maps and seating tables were torn from the walls, collected from the desks and chairs and floor and shoved into the trash. As soon as he heard the shower turn on, Sherlock carried the full bin downstairs and emptied it out. The important thing was to get rid of every last trace of the wedding in here. He’d turn 221b into a fortress against the outside world, a safe place for John to retreat and regroup. 

Once he was sure that the room looked like it usually did, without brimming over with wedding stuff, Sherlock disappeared into his own room and shed his tuxedo and shoes, replacing his clothes with one of his usual suits and a shirt. No need for a jacket with how stifling hot the flat was at the moment. Sherlock considered throwing open some windows but no - the window in the church had been open. 221b also had long curtains. It might trigger bad memories for John, though the colour was all wrong.

So, closed windows then. Different clothes.

Clothes ... John didn’t have any clothes left at Baker Street. Should have thought of that, should have-

A knock on the door downstairs made him pause mid-thought. His phone buzzed in his pocket.

‘ _I have asked Anthea to bring over John’s things’_

It might be the first time in years that Sherlock didn’t want to strangle his brother on principle.

He didn’t bother thanking him but took the stairs two at a time and threw open the door to find Mycroft’s faithful assistant outside, John’s familiar duffel bag at her feet, a black car idling at the curb.

“Shaving things, clothes, pyjamas, his army mug, laptop and phone charger,” Anthea said, nodding at the bag. “I also put in the half-finished crime novel from his bedside table.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock managed.

Anthea looked less distant than he had ever seen her. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “Look after him.” She paused, then added: “His gun is in the left outer pocket of the bag. I took out all the bullets.”

She dug into her pocket and handed him a clear plastic bag with the shining bullets inside. “You might want to put the gun in a safe place. We don’t want a repeat of last time.”

She turned and disappeared before Sherlock could ask what that was supposed to mean.

Instead, he simply grabbed the duffel bag, shoved the bullets into his own trouser pocket and firmly closed the door behind himself.

John was all that mattered right now. Anything else could wait.

*****

John was still in the shower when Sherlock returned upstairs - not a shower to simply get clean, then. Sherlock felt mildly sick at the idea of John breaking down in there while he was forced to remain outside, unable to do anything.

It was hell by any other name.

Sherlock laid out the clothes and knocked on the bathroom door. “I’ve put clothes by the connecting door to my room,” he called. “You can just grab them, get changed and lie down if you like. And if you need anything, anything at all, let me know.”

He didn’t get a response but he hadn’t expected one. He knew John was going to do exactly as he had said. Despite everyone’s conviction that John was somehow emotionally and socially well-adjusted, he was intensely private about his feelings. When it came to deeper emotion, that British stiff upper lip was as much a part of him as his hands and feet. Lying down in bed and hiding there so no one would see his pain would appeal to him.

Sherlock himself, who saw through John so much better than most people, would not be permitted inside the room with him, either.

He resigned himself to this fact and contemplated making tea. Would John want any? Probably not. And Sherlock wasn’t certain he had any mugs that didn’t contain traces of poisonous substances. No tea, then.

He did another inspection of the kitchen and sitting room, making sure that every last little trace of the wedding was gone. The walls looked suspiciously empty without any of the plans and schedules pinned to them. He grabbed one of the cold case files Lestrade had given him during his last visit to the Yard and started putting up the files. Dead white male in his seventies, strangled to death in his garden. It was as far away from what Mary’s crime scene had looked like as you could possibly get. Sherlock stepped back to survey the wall looking like it was any other day in 221b, and nodded to himself.

As soon as John got out of the bathroom, Sherlock would take a shower and get rid of the excess hair product. Perhaps he had gone a bit overboard with it this time around but he hadn’t wanted to accidentally mess up his hair if he shoved his hands through it.

The important thing was not to stop and think until he absolutely had to. He had promised himself he would not do that until tonight.

He froze, standing stock-still in the middle of the kitchen as he remembered what else he had promised himself.

The shock lasted only a moment before he whirled around and rushed back into his bedroom, dropping to his knees by his closet and groping around in it until the floor panel came loose, revealing a secret compartment. He fished around in the hiding place and pulled out the two bags of cocaine he had stashed there weeks ago. It had been done in preparation for this very day and as he stared down at them, he allowed himself a small moment of disbelief that he would not be needing them after all.

Two weeks ago, when he had dodged Mycroft's surveillance for long enough to find and pay a dealer who had exactly what he wanted, he had done so with the knowledge that he would need at least a month's supply, knowing full well that the closer they got to the wedding, the more closely Mycroft would be watching him. There would be no going back for seconds after the happy event had taken place, so he must make preparations beforehand.

He weighted the bags in his hands, feeling the old urge coursing through his veins. Earlier this morning, the thought of the cocaine had been the only thing that had propelled him from his bed and into his tuxedo. Now he was back unexpectedly early and the very nightmare he had expected his life to become had been averted and turned into John's instead. John, who was still in the shower and unlikely to come out for a while. A cold prickle ran down Sherlock's back and he tilted his head, listening closely before relaxing - at least he could still hear him moving in there and the patter of the water was consistent with someone standing, not lying, in the tub.

Sherlock shook his head, shoved the panel back into place, wrapped the cocaine in an old t-shirt and rushed back down the stairs and into 221c, where Mrs Hudson would not notice anything amiss.

The flat had never been furnished thanks to the persistent mould problem, but it did come with all the right appliances. Sherlock found himself in the bathroom, tearing open the bags and pouring the cocaine into the loo with shaking hands. It was hard, harder than it should have been. He had been clean for a full eight years now and it terrified and saddened him in equal measure how close he had come to throwing it all away. But he mustn't lie to himself and so he had had no choice but to acknowledge that he would not make it through the aftermath of John's wedding without a little help from his old friend.

He clenched his jaw as he emptied out the second bag, breath loud in the empty bathroom. He could hear the water from John's shower rushing through the pipes in the wall. He didn't have much time left. And at some point, Mrs Hudson was going to come and ask him what he was doing down here, if she was even back from the venue yet. He hadn't bothered to deduce it. 

Finally, the last of the drug was gone and he made sure there wasn't even the slightest hint of a remnant left before flushing the toilet several times for good measure until the water in the bowl was clear and he could be certain it was all gone. It had cost him a lot of money but that was hardly important now. Money could be replaced and drugs could be rebought at a later time, when John no longer needed him.

But for now, he did. So Sherlock would continue his sobriety and not let himself be tempted. It was too dangerous to keep the stuff in his room, where anyone might find it. Where John might find it and be disappointed in him or - worse - figure out why he had gotten it. Where John might find it and, in a moment of despair, decide to use it himself.

He shuddered at the thought. No, this stuff must be kept away from John - Anthea's comment about the gun still echoed in his head. He would not risk anything.

Which meant he should return upstairs now, before John got out of the shower, and make sure he was all right.

Two minutes later, Sherlock was back upstairs, making tea and two slices of toast, despite his earlier resolution. He found a mug in the back of the cupboard and gave it a very thorough wash before subjecting the tea to it, then found some butter and slices of ham for the toast. It was a bland meal, like sawdust on his tongue, but it would hopefully help calm his stomach a little. The warmth of the tea seemed to be helping already.

Finally, he heard the door connecting the bathroom to his bedroom open and close. His mind, never able to draw the line, presented him with images of John, naked in his bedroom. Sherlock took another sip of tea and promptly scalded his tongue. At least the pain helped get his mind off of that visual.

As soon as he was sure that John would not be returning to the bathroom, Sherlock stepped inside himself, stripped out of his fresh clothes and got in the shower.

With the hot water pelting him, forcing his muscles to relax, Sherlock sagged against the wall and buried his face in his hands. They were shaking badly. He hadn’t even noticed.

Too many thoughts raced through his head, had been racing through his head all day, all week.

He remembered the interview and the way the police officer had asked him if he and John had ever been separated today. They had been, Sherlock had confirmed, for five minutes while he went to the loo, two hours before the ceremony had been scheduled to begin.

He had very carefully glossed over the fact that he had spent those precious five minutes locked in a tiny bathroom stall, forcing his breathing under control and pleading with a God he didn’t believe in to stop all of this.

Intellectually, he knew that it wasn’t his fault, that magical thinking wasn’t a thing, that this was not a case of self-fulfilling prophecy or prayers answered. He had never once wanted her dead.

Yet he couldn’t get the memory out of his head. The tiny toilet cubicle and him, sitting on the closed lid of the loo, his head in his hands as he fervently wished something, anything, would happen to make this nightmare end.

And now he and John were caught up in yet another nightmare: John reeling from the sudden loss of the woman he loved and Sherlock reeling from the unbearable sense of relief and the guilt that came with it.

He shouldn’t feel relieved. And he certainly shouldn’t be glad, glad that she was gone forever, never to haunt this flat again, no longer in any position to take John away.

But if the price for that was breaking John’s heart, then the cost was too high to justify the outcome.


	4. Chapter 4

John lay in Sherlock’s bed, staring at the ceiling and not seeing anything.

He had drawn the curtains closed and the room was only lit by whatever sunlight made it through the gaps around them. Next door, the shower had been on for what seemed like an excessively long time. He wondered distantly if Sherlock, too, needed a moment to sort out his head.

They’d been friends. John needed to remember that. Sherlock and Mary had been friends, had actively liked each other and enjoyed one another’s company. It was just another thing that made her so utterly perfect for John - as if she had been made to fit into the life he led, full of crime and adventure and a mad scientist.

And now she was gone and there was a good chance that this very life was what had killed her. He had dragged her into it. It wasn’t unlikely that one of the many enemies he and Sherlock had made over the years had come back to take his or her revenge, today of all days, when it would have the most impact.

It was his fault.

He hadn’t ever expected to meet anyone who could possibly fit into his life the way Mary had, not after Sherlock had died ... and then he had come back and somehow that had worked, too, and John had never questioned it, had never once wondered if perhaps getting Sherlock back and having Mary at the same time might be too good to be true.

He had never thought to question his fortune, mostly because he had thought he was somehow owed a bit of happiness.

Of course he had been wrong.

‘ _You didn’t ever stop and wonder if this life was good for her, not for a moment. And now she’s dead and it’s your fault. You might as well have pulled the trigger yourself.’_

Next door, the shower was finally turned off and he heard Sherlock moving about.

A dead bride and a back-from-the-dead best friend. This was his life now. It would be too much to hope that Mary, too, would somehow come back, wouldn’t it?

The bathroom door leading to the hallway opened and closed and Sherlock lingered by his bedroom door for a moment. Listening to make sure John was all right? Debating whether or not to barge in and get fresh clothes?

A moment later, his footsteps retreated down the hall, leaving John alone with the endless carousel of thoughts showing him all the things he should have done differently.

‘ _It’s all my fault.’_

He lay in the dark and let that thought swallow him whole.

*****

John hadn’t made a noise but Sherlock wasn’t stupid enough to assume his friend was asleep. He had wanted to go in, to comfort him somehow. He had never been good at this sort of thing but it was the thing that was done, yes? And he would do anything for John. Providing comfort could hardly be considered a hardship. He could always google ways to do it before applying himself to the task.

But even though his fingers had hovered an inch away from the door handle, he hadn’t managed to bring himself to actually press it down and face John’s grief.

Instead, he opened all the windows in the rest of the flat to dissipate the heat, sat in his armchair in the sitting room and made a list of potential suspects.

There were a lot to choose from: forgotten or overlooked members of Moriarty’s network, disgruntled former clients who felt they hadn’t gotten what they had hired Sherlock for, family members of former clients who had gotten precisely what they deserved and enjoyed blaming the messenger, any and all of the countless criminals he and John had encountered over the years and most of whom were serving prison sentences because of them. Prison was a great place to find someone to do your dirty work for you, Sherlock knew. He had once gotten himself locked up for a case and had ended up causing a riot in the building. Not his best moment.

And then of course there was suspect number one, the one person Sherlock really didn’t want to be suspicious of but who he was going to question the first chance he got.

As if on cue, his phone buzzed with a text message. He swiped his thumb across the screen and stared down at the short text.

_The perimeter of 221b is secure._   
_I have people positioned with_   
_eyes on all entrances and exits_   
_on a 24/7 basis. - MH_

Sherlock sighed. It was no more than he would have expected. Clearly Mycroft was once again anticipating his train of thought and had taken steps to ensure that most of the suspect list would be very surprised indeed if they attempted an attack on his or John’s life within their ow- within _Sherlock’s_ own home.

‘ _Must remember that John doesn’t live here anymore’_ he reminded himself again. He kept losing track of that fact, kept referring to 221b as _their_ home rather than his. Almost 10 months had passed since his return and yet the thought of John living anywhere but 221b Baker Street was still incomprehensible, catching him off-guard each and every time the topic arose, like reaching the end of a stairwell and expecting one more step that just wasn't there.

Perhaps, if he was lucky and played his cards right, John might be willing to consider moving back in. Even he had referred to 221b as ‘home’ earlier. Surely that was a good sign?

Sherlock tried to squash the little seed of hope that tried to make a home beneath his ribs. It wouldn’t do to get ahead of himself. John was in no condition to make any decisions whatsoever at this time. The ones he did make would have to be examined very carefully to filter out the grief and the shock to get to whether or not whatever he decided was a) feasible and b) a good idea. Not that Sherlock would ever deny him anything.

Onward, then. He would compile a list of the most likely suspects, pester the Yard for information on the case and find out who was responsible.

And perhaps in time he would find a way to make John stay. Perhaps, in time, 221b would feel like home again.

*****

Mrs Hudson knocked gently on the door frame before stepping into the sitting room, which looked like an avalanche disaster zone.

“Oh, Sherlock,” she said, catching sight of him on the floor in the middle of the carnage.

He glanced up and was not surprised to find tears in her kind eyes.

“Mrs Hudson.”

“How is John?” she asked softly, navigating around the stacks of paper he had spread everywhere and sitting down on a chair next to him.

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “He’s gone to have a lie-down in my room but I’m not sure if he’s sleeping. I thought it best to simply let him be.”

She nodded. “A good decision. I’m sure he’ll join you when he is ready to face the world again.”

She sniffed, pulling a handkerchief from her pocket. “Oh, it’s just so sad and so horrible. Who would do a thing like that? What has poor Mary ever done to anybody?”

“If I knew, I’d already be out there, hunting them down,” he told her darkly. “However, I’m still in the process of determining the ‘why’ before I can get to the ‘who’ and the ‘where are they hiding’ part of the problem.”

Mrs Hudson glanced around at the piles of paper, all the old case files Sherlock had meticulously kept and collected over the years. She nodded decisively. “I’ll make you a cuppa. Paperwork is always easier with a hot cup of tea to keep you company.”

“Thank you,” he murmured. It was dark outside already and he didn’t know how long he had been sitting here. At least a couple of hours, though, because it had been the afternoon when he and John had gotten home and now it was definitely dark outside. He vaguely remembered switching on the lights at some point.

There were the usual noises of Mrs Hudson busying herself in the kitchen, hunting for a clean mug, accidentally doing half the dishes to find one, tutting at the chemical stains on the kitchen table and the kettle boiling. Finally, a hand holding a large cup of tea appeared in Sherlock’s vision. He reached out to take it from her, murmuring another thank you, just to be on the safe side. Mrs Hudson was looking distressingly fragile tonight. He made a mental note to keep in mind that she wasn’t as young as she had been when he first met her and that these things were taking their toll on her.

He was expecting her to take her leave and was therefore surprised when she sat on the chair next to him again and stared holes into his skull until he finally met her gaze.

“Well?” she asked. “Where do I start?”

Sherlock blinked. “Start what?”

She gestured at the piles around them. “Where do I start helping you look for anything that might help you find whoever is behind this?”

If he wasn’t holding a cup of scalding hot tea, Sherlock thought there was a good chance he might have hugged her.

Instead, he merely indicated one of the piles closest to her. “You can start with these. We’re looking for anything that includes threats against me or John or where someone might have cause to hold a grudge against us that is strong enough to kill an innocent woman.”

Sherlock had never before considered asking Mrs Hudson for help but he quickly came to reconsider that decision. The woman had a sharp eye and after all the things her husband had gotten up to, she was more than adept at figuring out which threats were legitimate and which had been made in the heat of the moment or by people who would never actually follow through on them.

Soon, they had a list of likely suspects between the two of them.

“Here, this one said he’d wipe out your entire family,” Mrs Hudson noted, shaking her head at the file. “People these days. When I was young, they just killed whoever got in their way and left it at that. All these Hollywood movies about vendettas really messed with people’s heads. Nowadays everyone wants to star in their own Kill Bill revival.”

“Who is Bill and why was he murdered?” Sherlock asked, perking up. Perhaps there was a lead somewhere in there.

But Mrs Hudson dashed his hopes with a shake of her head. “It’s an action film, dear. Completely and entirely fictional and this woman goes on a killing spree across the world just so she can kill this guy Bill in the end. Makes people believe mass murder is fine as long as their motive is revenge.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Yes, people are idiots. Nothing new there. Well, perhaps someone did feel inspired.”

“They’d likely have used one of these samurai swords, though,” Mrs Hudson said. “That’s not what happened, is it?”

He shook his head. “No. Mary was ... Mary was shot.”

Mrs Hudson blanched a little but nodded. “Well, I hope for her sake that it was less painful and a lot faster.”

“Near instantaneous, or so I would think,” Sherlock managed, after clearing his throat. Why was it that the words seemed to get stuck in his throat? He hadn’t even liked Mary, though he had made sure to at least get along with her, for John's sake. He had always thought she was too condescending towards John.

And now she was gone and he resolutely pushed all his mixed emotions about her as far down as they would go. Now was not the time to focus on himself.

Mrs Hudson reached out and patted his arm. “You’ll make sure they’re found, whoever they are,” she said. “I know you will. And in the meantime, between the two of us, we’re going to look after John as best we can.” She nodded firmly. “It will be different, this time around.”

Sherlock blinked at her. “This time?”

She raised her eyebrows. “I’m not going to let him sink into his grief the way he did when we lost you. This time, he’s going to stay right here. And this time, you’re still here, too. So you better stick to him like glue, Sherlock Holmes, because that man can’t take another loss. Do you hear?”

He nodded, recalling Anthea’s words from earlier this afternoon about John’s gun with a shiver.

“Understood,” he murmured. “It won’t be like last time. I won’t let it.”

She squeezed his hand. “That’s my boy.”

With that, she turned back to the files and they continued to work in silence, only stopping for a break when Mrs Hudson made them another pot of tea.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock did catch a couple of hours of sleep after Mrs Hudson finally got up around midnight and all but ordered him to stop. “Time to go to bed, young man.”

“Can’t,” he said. “John’s sleeping in there.”

Mrs Hudson sighed. “You know, under any other circumstances I would tell you to just go join him. What’s the worst that could happen? He gets angry about you sleeping in your own bed? Hardly. But perhaps it’s not the right time for even such an innocent thing.” She put her hands to her hips. “However, there is a perfectly suitable sofa right here and I know for a fact that you have slept on it quite a lot, so you may as well do it again.”

Sherlock grumbled but complied. He was getting tired. The day had been entirely too much of everything and he needed some time to process all that had occurred. Cramming more information into his brain had only served to give him a mild headache. The insistent throbbing against his skull made it hard to focus on the words he was trying to read.

“Fine.”

He stood and helped her up from her chair, holding her hand to provide balance as she navigated her way to the door.

“Thank you, my dear boy. Good night.”

“Good night,” he murmured, accepting her kiss to his cheek and giving her one in return. There were times when such a thing was not only acceptable but necessary. A firm reminder that not all the people around him had died, that he had people who cared and worried about him. 

He waited until he heard the door to Mrs Hudson’s flat click shut before he grabbed the afghan from the back of John’s chair and stretched out on the sofa, wrapping himself in the warm blanket and breathing in the scent of John and home.

He fell asleep quickly, sheer exhaustion overpowering the thoughts racing through his head.

He woke several hours later, in the early morning, to the sensation of being stared at.

When he opened his eyes, it was to find a dark silhouette standing over him. Anyone else might have startled or, worse, attacked out of sheer self-defence, but Sherlock merely frowned. Things would have to be really dire for him not to recognise John by the mere shape of him, let alone the weight of his stare.

“Can’t sleep?”

The John-shaped shadow shook his head. “Tried but I keep waking and finding the other side of the bed empty. It’s ...“ he hesitated. “Not good.”

His voice sounded terribly rough and raspy and Sherlock couldn't quite tell if it was from lack of use or crying.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock murmured. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

John shifted his weight, awkward by the open expression of sentiment. “Thank you. And just so you know, I don’t blame you. I know it wasn’t your fault. There was no way you could have known, or done anything to stop it. Even you can’t be omniscient and in two places at once.”

Sherlock quirked one corner of his mouth. “And yet we both wish I had been, just this once.”

Perhaps it was the dark, perhaps it was the grief and the loneliness. Perhaps it was the simple need for human contact.

John held out his hand. “Come to bed with me?”

Sherlock stared at him, at the outstretched hand. “I ....”

“I can’t sleep on my own,” John said. “My brain is all messed up. I kept seeing her dead and you dead and then the both of you and I just ... waking up to an empty room didn’t help. Please.”

It was how wrecked he sounded and because Sherlock would never stop feeling guilty over having left John alone, thinking him dead.

“All right,” he said, and accepted John’s hand to help him stand.

The afghan fell to his feet and he picked it up, throwing it onto the sofa before allowing John to lead him into his bedroom, their hands still clasped.

*****

“At least you can put on your pyjamas this way,” John found himself saying, eyeing Sherlock in his customary slacks and shirt. He must have gotten changed while John had been in the shower. Trust Sherlock not to make himself comfortable.

Sherlock nodded and John reluctantly let go of his hand. It was surprisingly warm and there was something reassuring about feeling the callouses from hours playing the violin and the small chemical burn scars against his skin.

Alive. Sherlock was warm and alive and here with him. It was enough.

“Go back to bed,” Sherlock told him softly, picking up his pyjama bottoms and one of the old t-shirts he usually slept in. “I’ll just brush my teeth.”

John nodded and got back into Sherlock’s deliciously comfortable bed while the man himself disappeared into the bathroom. If anyone had asked him before, he would have made a point of joking about the high thread count he expected the sheets to have, but what really had him release a deep sigh was the mattress. Perfect lumbar support without losing any of the comfort of a reasonably soft bed. It was a mystery why Sherlock didn’t sleep in it more often.

There was the sound of pipes creaking and Sherlock’s fancy electric toothbrush. Finally, Sherlock returned, looking ridiculously soft and young in his pyjamas and t-shirt.

“Do you have a side?” John asked, suddenly realising that he had never truly witnessed Sherlock sleep in a bed. They had shared rooms sometimes but that had been during out of town cases, where Sherlock had merely looked at him as if the very idea of sleep was blasphemy, leaving John to spread out in whatever bed was available.

Sherlock shook his head. “No, but you do. Get comfortable.”

John wasn’t surprised his friend knew where he preferred to sleep and simply slid from the middle of the bed towards the right side, the one closer to the door.

Sherlock rounded the bed and got in on the other side, eyeing John carefully as if expecting him to break down at any moment. John found he couldn’t blame him for it. He was sort of waiting for that himself. A couple of hours of staring at the ceiling hadn’t done anything to make him break down in tears. He knew it was going to come, though. It was just a question of when.

“Thank you,” he murmured as Sherlock stretched out next to him. “I know you don’t usually do this.”

“John, please,” Sherlock said, managing to make his eye-roll audible in his voice. “I told you earlier you could have anything you needed. I meant that. All right? No matter what you need, just tell me and I’ll make it happen.” He paused. “If it’s humanly possible, that is.”

John let out a bitter laugh. “Yeah, even you can’t raise the dead.”

He thought he felt Sherlock flinch. “Sorry.”

“No, that was fair enough. I’m sorry, John. I would if I could.”

And he sounded so pained as he said it that John believed him without question.

Sherlock reached out and switched off the small lamp on the bedside table, casting them in darkness. “Sleep, John,” he murmured. “I’ll be here.”

Before he knew it, John had reached out under the blanket and found Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock jerked a little, then relaxed, moving his arm closer to John. He let his fingers trail along Sherlock’s hand and towards his wrist, gently encircling it.

“This okay?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “Of course. I did say ‘anything’, John.”

Lying in the dark with Sherlock’s steady pulse at his fingertips, John could almost believe him. He finally allowed himself to relax a little. At least one of the most important people in his life was right here, alive and only mildly sarcastic. It was all John needed to know right now.

“Good night, Sherlock,” he murmured.

His reply was soft, barely audible. “Good night.”

They lay side by side in silence but John was sure neither of them slept. A thought occurred to him and he snorted out a bitter laugh.

“What is it?” Sherlock asked.

John shook his head, though he knew Sherlock couldn’t see it in the dark. He could probably hear it, though. “I just realised ... this was supposed to be my wedding night.”

Sherlock appeared to be imitating a statue next to him, though John could feel his pulse hammering away under his fingertips. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” He didn’t even know why it had occurred to him, why he was now thinking about it, as if it made any difference. Today had been supposed to be his wedding day. This morning, Mary had still been alive. It seemed impossible to wrap his head around that.

There was a pause. And then Sherlock, very carefully testing the words out as if trying to figure out how to make them fit into his mouth, asked: “Do you want ...?”

He trailed off but his pinky slid along the edge of John’s hand.

All the breath left John’s lungs as he realised how his own words had sounded, how Sherlock must have understood them. “Wha...? No. God, no. I was just thinking ... you know, how reality has this way of fucking us over, I guess. You think your life is going to go one way and then at the last second it gets derailed entirely.”

“Ah,” Sherlock said and relaxed a little. “It rather does, doesn’t it?”

*****

Relief.

Sweet, blessed relief flooded his entire body and Sherlock felt himself relax again, even as he shoved down a sudden twinge of disappointment.

‘ _You can’t have it both ways,’_ he reminded himself firmly. Of course John wouldn’t want ... that. Of course it had just been a throwaway comment, another result of the no doubt endless thought spiral John was caught in, unable to escape. Today had been his wedding day and now he lay in bed with someone who definitely was not his wife - of course he would think of this.

Sherlock tried to tell himself to calm down. It didn’t matter that he would have ... that if John had wanted ... it didn’t matter.

It would have been a terrible idea, he knew. Rebound sex never was anything else and he didn’t want to even think about what it would do to his and John’s friendship.

No, better to let sleeping dogs lie.

This... this was more than he had ever expected, more than he had ever allowed himself to consider as an honest possibility. It had certainly never occurred to him that his saving grace would come in the form of a bullet to Mary’s head. And he couldn’t even allow himself to be thankful to whomever had pulled the trigger because they had shattered John and Sherlock had _views_ about that sort of thing. John came first. Anything else, Sherlock’s own complicated emotions included, would have to take a step back and defer to him.

Next to him, John sighed and Sherlock felt him relax as well. It occurred to him that he had never shared a bed with another human being before. Not like this. He didn’t have the faintest idea what to do, how to act; so he simply lay there and breathed as evenly as possible and waited for sleep to claim them both.

It did, eventually.

*****

John woke up warm and, for the first time in years, without his back aching.

‘ _Good lumbar support’_ he thought dazedly, recalling that he was lying in Sherlock’s bed on a mattress that had probably cost more than John earned in a month.

For a blissful moment, he was simply warm and relaxed and safe. Then he recalled why he had slept in Sherlock’s bed and his breath caught, effectively muting the high whine he could feel working its way up his throat.

He pressed his face into the pillow to muffle the sound just in case any of it did slip out.

When he could breathe again, he turned his head a little and found himself face to face with a sleeping Sherlock. He was stretched out on his stomach, one arm and his pillow under his head, his face turned towards John. There were dark rings under his eyes that even the night’s sleep hadn’t been able to erase. His face was relaxed, though, smooth and without the usual furrow between his brows from all that thinking he did. He looked at least five years younger.

John’s heart ached to remember that Sherlock from, well, four years ago now. Pale and alien, a complete mess of annoying habits, ridiculous thoughts and excitement. He hadn’t seen Sherlock truly excited in far too long. Hell, he couldn’t remember a single moment since Sherlock had come back. Perhaps being away had taken it all, had used up his capacity for excitement as surely as it had eaten up the almost youthful innocence he had at times displayed.

John tried to make himself think about that rather than to face the day ahead, or, worse, the memories of the day before.

He realised he was still holding Sherlock’s wrist in a loose grip, though it appeared Sherlock had somehow contrived to switch hands when turning onto his stomach, without John noticing at all. A night’s sleep, free from nightmares. John nodded to himself. It had been worth asking, just for that.

He carefully released Sherlock’s wrist and eased out of bed. Let him sleep for a while longer. Clearly Sherlock had worked himself to exhaustion these last couple of days, organising the wedding that hadn’t had a chance to happen. He deserved a bit of rest.

John sneaked into the bathroom, relieved himself and went about brushing his teeth. No point in taking another shower after the one he had had yesterday afternoon. It wasn’t as if he had been engaged in any strenuous activities.

He returned to Sherlock’s bedroom to collect the spare clothes Sherlock had somehow organised for him. For a moment, he wondered where they might have come from, but the answer presented itself along with the question. There was only one person well-informed enough and definitely able to access his and Mary’s flat without a key who would bother sending a bag full of John’s things to 221b Baker Street.

John selected some clothes and got dressed as quietly as he could. A careful glance at the bed confirmed that Sherlock was still fast asleep.

‘ _Dead to the world’_ John thought. A shiver ran down his back and he had to force himself not to reach out for Sherlock’s wrist again. He did watch him carefully until he saw his torso rise and fall ever so slightly with his breaths. It was hard to tell while he was lying on his stomach but John had nothing but time.

Finally convinced that Sherlock hadn’t suddenly died on him as well, John pulled the bedroom door closed behind him and set about making breakfast.

Simple tasks, that was it. Get up, get dressed, make breakfast. He would think about what to do next once he was eating.

For now, all he knew was that he had to function.

He made toast and tea, sparing a puzzled look for the half-done dishes. Sherlock wasn’t the type to do anything by halves - or the dishes at all - and Mrs Hudson rarely left a task unfinished. Perhaps it was an experiment? In this flat, anything was possible.

He selected a clean plate anyway, filled his army mug - not hard to guess how that had found its way back here, either - and waited for the toast to pop.

Twenty-four hours ago, he had already been at the church, nervous and anxious, questioning his life choices and feeling almost hysterical amusement as Sherlock attempted to get him to eat something - a heretofore unknown role-reversal.

And now he was sitting in 221b as if he had never left, as if the past two-and-three-quarters years had never happened at all. As if Mary hadn’t ever existed in the first place, as if Sherlock hadn’t jumped to his death, as if John’s life hadn’t been torn apart twice over.

‘ _It’s all my fault.’_


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock woke with absolutely no concept of how much time had passed since he had gone to sleep. It was light now and the other half of the bed was empty. He reminded himself not to feel disappointed and took a moment to enjoy simply lying in bed without having had to wake up to the horrible knowledge that John was now married.

Instead, he had woken to the knowledge that Mary was dead and John was heartbroken. It wasn’t a trade-off Sherlock would have chosen. In his mind, it was quite obvious that the only person who should suffer was him.

He yawned, rolled onto his back and stretched. When was the last time he had slept properly? When was the last time he had slept in his bed for longer than an hour or two at a time? He honestly couldn’t recall. It must have been months ago, before the wedding preparations had picked up and everything had suddenly become very urgent indeed. He couldn’t even remember the last time he had fallen into a near comatose sleep after solving a case with John.

He frowned. Where was John? Was he all right? How did he feel today, now that yesterday’s events had had some time to sink in?

The thought finally dragged him out of bed and he pulled on his dressing gown, made a short excursion into the bathroom and eventually padded into the kitchen.

John was sitting at the table, reading the paper. Sherlock immediately felt as if he had been catapulted back in time to about three years ago, when life had been as close to perfect as he could possibly imagine.

“Good morning,” he said, eyeing John carefully. He looked ... normal. It was disturbing.

“Good morning,” John replied. “I made tea and there’s still some toast if you want any.”

“Not hungry,” Sherlock said automatically and went for the kettle. “How long have you been up?”

“What, you can’t deduce it?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Your side was cold, so it must have been at least half an hour, possibly longer. You’re halfway through the paper and already had breakfast, so it’s more likely been at least an hour. Anything beyond that would be mere speculation.”

John smiled. “Well done. It’s been an hour and a half.”

“You let me sleep,” Sherlock noted. He tried not to sound accusing but he thought it might have come out that way anyways.

“You looked like you needed it,” John replied, eyeing him in return. “Those circles under your eyes look a bit better at least. When was the last time you had a proper night’s sleep?”

“Can’t remember,” Sherlock said, pulling the teabag out of his mug and settling onto a chair opposite John. “You are acting disturbingly normal.”

“Well, it’s just another day, isn’t it?” John asked, turning the page of his paper. “Yesterday my bride got murdered just before our wedding and today I’m having breakfast at 221b Baker Street as if someone pressed rewind on three years of my life and decided to start over.”

Sherlock blinked at him, alarm bells going off in his head.

“John...”

“So why shouldn’t I be normal?” John continued, still disturbingly calm. “It’s all fine, isn’t it?”

Sherlock thought he had rarely been that scared in his life. “John ... that doesn’t sound very healthy. I realise I’m not an expert on anyone’s mental health, least of all my own, but you sound like you’ve had a complete mental break.”

John looked up at him and this time Sherlock could see the brittleness around his eyes. His own features softened in response. “I don’t think denial is going to work, John.”

“Worth a try,” John suggested and his voice shook ever so slightly.

Sherlock felt his lips pull into a sympathetic smile and quickly wiped the expression off his face. John would mistake it for pity and hate it. He carefully set his mug down and leaned across the table to look John straight in the eye.

“John, listen to me. I know this is hard and terrible and you’d like to pretend it didn’t really happen. But if there’s anything I’ve learnt, it’s that wishing doesn’t make it so. Scream, cry, fall apart, do whatever you need to do. But don’t shut me out. And you can always be sure that I won’t judge you for any of it. Nothing you could possibly do could make me see you any differently.”

“Differently from what?” John asked bitterly. “An old man with a failed life?”

Sherlock snorted. “Please, when have you ever been any of that? Forty-one isn’t old and you have never failed at anything you put your head to. You even turned _me_ into something resembling a human being and you know how many others have failed at that task, my own brother included.”

“I think your brother was more in charge of turning you into a robot, actually,” John contradicted him, allowing himself to get distracted by Sherlock’s words.

Sherlock held his gaze. “My point still stands. I will never judge you for any of it.”

John stared back at him, judging his sincerity. He must have found it to his satisfaction because after another long moment, he nodded. “Even if I want to find whoever is responsible and put a bullet through their head?”

Sherlock smiled. “Even then. Funny you should say that, incidentally.” He gestured at the sitting room. “Mrs Hudson and I already made a start yesterday. We spent some hours reading old case files and compiling a list of people who uttered threats against you, me or both of us.”

Following his outstretched hand to take in the mess that was the sitting room, John blinked. “Did you say you and Mrs Hudson?”

“She was up here yesterday evening when you had gone to bed and wanted to know what she could do. That woman is a one-woman-army, John, I wouldn’t have denied her even if I had been able to find a feasible reason to do so.”

“Fair enough,” John allowed.

“Well?” Sherlock asked. “Care to dive back in with me? If you want to stare into nothing for a while, you can of course do that, but I might use your lap as just another surface on which to pile paper.”

John cracked his first real smile. “All right, all right. Let’s find the bastard.”

He stood and marched into the sitting room, surveying the papers strewn in two rough half-circles around the places where Sherlock and Mrs Hudson had sat last night.

“Which ones were yours?”

Sherlock mutely indicated one of the semi-circles and John promptly sat in the centre of the other one. “All right, explain the system to me.”

Joining him on the worn carpet, Sherlock did as he was told and within minutes they were both immersed in the old files, adding each name, threat and case number to the Excel document Sherlock had created on his laptop, which stood in the space between them.

If the reason for their work hadn’t been such a sad one, Sherlock thought he might have enjoyed it immensely.

*****

The day passed in a blur of old case files, crime scene photographs and Sherlock’s at times almost illegible handwriting, which John had to ask him to decipher.

At some point around noon, Mrs Hudson came back up, ruffled Sherlock’s hair and pulled John into a tight hug, made awkward by the fact that he had his hands full of gruesome crime scene photographs and barely managed to hug her back properly.

“Oh, John, I’m so sorry, dear!” She dabbed at her eyes with one of her flowery handkerchiefs. “I don’t know what to say, it’s all so dreadful. How are you holding up?”

“Could be worse, I suppose,” John said. “Thanks Mrs Hudson.”

She nodded and patted his shoulder. “You just take your time, dear. I’m sure Sherlock will look out for you and if the two of you ever need anything, you know where I am and I’ll be sure to have some food for you in no time at all, though I’m sure you won’t need it. When my sister’s husband passed away last year, we were up to our ears in casseroles the neighbours brought over. I don’t know what they were thinking. You can’t fill the hole a person left in your life with lasagna.”

She turned to Sherlock. “When you went and died on us, on the other hand, we had people from a bio-hazard removal agency or some such here to clean out the kitchen.”

“Oh, is that what happened to the fungus under the sink?” Sherlock asked. “It was a long-term experiment. Another year or so and I’m sure it would have grown its own personality.”

“Silly boy,” she said, swatting him lightly. “You make sure John here has everything he needs, you hear?”

“Yes, Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock replied obediently. John had gone quiet and tense, hunching his shoulders at the mention of casseroles and filling holes in people’s lives with lasagna. But there was no stopping Mrs Hudson when she was on a roll and she was already moving away from the topic of dead spouses and back to the more immediate concern of keeping the two of them fed.

“-maybe a light salad to go with it. It’s dreadfully warm outside, so most of the usual comfort foods are right out.”

“Thank you, Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock said loudly, hoping to stem the flow of words. “I’m sure whatever you do will be just the thing. Now if you’ll excuse us, John and I have work to do.”

“Oh... of course,” she said, throwing a worried glance at John. “I’ll leave you to it, then. Please do let me know if you’re going to rush off after anyone. I wouldn’t know what to say if that nice Detective Inspector Lestrade came around asking for you.”

“Yes, fine,” Sherlock muttered and demonstratively turned back to the files spread out before him.

She finally left and Sherlock watched out of the corner of his eye as John gradually relaxed as he re-immersed himself in their mutual task.

The excel list grew ever longer over the course of the evening.

“God, we’ve led a terrible life,” John noted at one point. “That’s over 30 people who want to see us dead, Sherlock.”

“Some of them merely want to maim us,” Sherlock tried to reassure him. “Don’t worry about it, we’ll just compile the list for now and then get Lestrade’s help to whittle it down further. A lot of them will either be in prison or dead and of those in prison not all will have the means to orchestrate anything so complex.”

John nodded. “Not many people knew about the location of the wedding, either,” he said. “Which church we would use, I mean. That should help narrow it down as well.”

Sherlock blinked and beamed at him. “You’re absolutely right! Brilliant, John!”

That earned him another smile. “Well, we were being so careful because I knew James was going to be there and, well, I told you why he isn’t one for the public.”

Sherlock nodded. “I didn’t even get to talk to him,” he murmured. “Though I suppose Major Sholto would have come straight to the venue rather than risk the church as well, particularly if he doesn’t feel all that lenient towards deities anyway.”

“True,” John agreed. He hesitated. “You don’t think it was someone who had it in for James, do you?”

“Doubtful,” Sherlock said, tilting his head. “It would have to be an extremely inept murderer to confuse Major Sholto in parade uniform with Mary in a wedding dress.”

He tried to keep his tone gentle but John flinched anyway at the reminder of what his fiancée, his bride, had looked like, lying on the floor in her beautiful dress, the image ruined by the two bullet holes in her head and chest.

“Yeah,” John said. “Yeah, you’re right.”

They continued working in silence, only stopping for bathroom breaks and more tea. At one point, Mrs Hudson brought them a plate full of sandwiches, which they finished almost without noticing.

The excel list grew in length and the files before them began to dwindle at least a little as they began to make noticeable headway.

Finally, several hours after it had gotten dark enough to make Sherlock get up and switch on the lights, he finally put aside yet another file and looked across the floor to John, who was leaning against his armchair with his chin on his chest, dozing.

“John,” Sherlock called softly. “John!”

John startled and blinked dazedly. “Huh?”

“Go to bed,” Sherlock told him. “It’s late and you’re only going to strain your neck if you fall asleep here.”

“’m not tired,” John lied, yawning.

Sherlock gave him a look.

“Fine, maybe a little.” John sighed and stood, stretching with a groan. Sherlock could hear several joints pop and made a face. Clearly what John needed was a good night’s sleep in Sherlock’s comfortable and ergonomically tested bed.

But instead of retiring, John simply remained standing in the middle of the sitting room, apparently warring with himself.

“What is it?” Sherlock asked. “Did you need anything?”

John hesitated. “I just ... will you come?”

Sherlock blinked. He had thought the previous night a one-time thing. The prospect of another one was ... he didn’t even know what it was, too busy trying to process John’s words to also spend brainpower on trying to determine how he felt about it.

Taking his silence for refusal or doubt, John elaborated. “It’s just ... it helped. You being there. Feeling your pulse. It kept me grounded. I didn’t have a single nightmare. No dreams at all that I can recall, in fact. But it’s fine if you don’t ...”

He seemed to shrink before Sherlock's eyes, head ducked and shoulders drawn in, making himself smaller. It was unbearable to watch.

“Yes,” Sherlock said hastily. “Yes, of course, John. As I said: anything you need.”

He stood, making a face as his own knees cracked. Apparently they were both getting older.

John looked almost painfully relieved, managing another half-smile. “Guess we’re going to work sitting in our armchairs tomorrow,” he said. “Instead of sitting on the floor. We’re getting too old for this.”

Sherlock tried to adopt a haughty expression. “I’ll never be too old to sit on the floor, John.”

“I’ll remind you of that when you’re seventy-five and struggling to get up,” John told him, clearly unaware of what it did to Sherlock to hear John making plans that reached so far into the future.

Instead of telling him so, he merely led the way to his bedroom. The great thing about having spent all day in his pyjamas and dressing gown was that he didn’t even need to get changed now, so he merely had a quick wash, threw his dressing gown over a chair and crawled into bed. He couldn’t remember the last time he had gone to sleep according to any sort of semi-regular schedule. Granted, last night he had started out on the sofa, but the end result remained the same - sleeping at night. Usually, he was simply too busy to bother or he actively forgot and only remembered when it was already dawn outside.

John emerged from the bathroom several minutes later, back in his own pyjama bottoms and a soft cotton t-shirt, and Sherlock felt his traitorous heart lurch as he watched this new, soft-looking John climb into bed with him like it was just another night and not remarkable at all.

This time, Sherlock immediately shuffled closer, rolling into his preferred sleeping position on his stomach before finding John's forearm under the blankets and nudging his hand with his own. “Good?”

John’s fingers closed around his wrist, an unbreakable tether between them. “Good.”

*****

This time, Sherlock was the first one awake.

He kept his eyes closed and took stock. A warm hand still gently holding on to his wrist, a dip in the mattress where someone else was lying nearby. A stray ray of sunshine falling through the gap in the curtains and warming his back.

He opened his eyes. John was mere inches away from him, fast asleep with his head turned towards Sherlock, eyes moving in the characteristic manner of someone deep in the grasp of a REM sleep cycle.

Sherlock allowed himself the indulgence of watching him sleep for a couple of minutes, committing the sight to memory. Who knew if he would ever get to see this again?

Finally, he very carefully extracted his hand from John’s lax fingers and rolled out of bed. The alarm on the nightstand told him it was past eight already. He was reasonably sure he hadn’t slept through the night even once since he had jumped off of the roof of Bart’s, so this was a bit of a nice surprise.

It was a less nice surprise to walk into the kitchen and find one DI Lestrade of Scotland Yard in the sitting room, peering at the piles of paper he and John had left everywhere.

“Do come in and make yourself comfortable,” Sherlock said dryly, taking no little enjoyment from watching Lestrade jump in surprise.

“Ah, there you are,” he said. “Good morning. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“You were clearly prepared to wait,” Sherlock noted, nodding towards Lestrade’s jacket, slung over the back of a chair in the kitchen and a cup of coffee, no doubt courtesy of Mrs Hudson.

The DI shrugged. “Didn’t want to barge in and wake you. I always doubted you slept at all but if anyone needs a good night’s sleep, it’s you. And you’re such a fright after a 48-hour stint, I’m not keen on seeing you awake before you want to be.”

Sherlock shrugged. “If you say so. Just keep your voice down, John is still sleeping and I want him to get as much rest as he can.”

Lestrade glanced upwards. “He is? How can you tell?”

“I just saw him,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. “His bedroom upstairs is currently uninhabitable.”

“So he’s sleeping _in your bed_?” Lestrade asked, lowering his voice to barely more than a quiet hiss. “Do you think that’s a good idea? Christ, Sherlock, his wife just died!”

“I am well aware,” Sherlock hissed back. “He said he sleeps better with me there. Keeps hold of my wrist to check my pulse even in his sleep. I could sit by the bed all night but it seems to make more sense for me to also catch some sleep, so this is the arrangement we have arrived at. Is this to your satisfaction, inspector?”

Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fine. Whatever. I’m just not going to question either of you. Lord knows that never led to anything, anyway.”

“Glad you’re seeing sense,” Sherlock said coolly. “Now, was there anything I could do for you?”

Lestrade shifted uneasily. “Uh, I’m here for John, actually. Got some follow-up questions for him. They've decided I might as well be the one doing this since we already have some rapport. Complete one-eighty on their previous stance, but you know how it is.” He glanced around the sitting room. “What’s all this, then?”

‘ _Ah,’_ Sherlock thought. _‘He won’t say a word about what brought him here until he can talk to John in person. Must be important, then, and clearly sensitive information.’_

He decided to allow Lestrade the distraction. It wouldn’t do to try and get information out of him without John present. John had a right to be the first person to learn anything concerning the case.

“We’ve been going through all our cases to create a list of people who uttered threats against either or both of us or who might have reason to wish John harm. I’ve been logging everything in an Excel sheet. Give us another couple of days and I’ll e-mail you the entire thing, including name, case specifics and the type of threat uttered - ad verbatim where possible.”

“Cor, that’d be great,” Lestrade said. “Thanks mate.”

 _'Mate.'_ The word echoed through Sherlock’s head and made some more alarm bells go off. If Lestrade went so far as to call him ‘mate’, things must be very dire indeed.

“Have your colleagues at least managed to clear us of all suspicion now?” he asked, hoping to get at least some sense of where they stood. “I gave the officer who questioned me the most precise time line of his entire career, I should hope he put it to good use and managed to verify our whereabouts and respective inability to sneak around and kill Mary in the one and a half days you’ve had since then.”

“Hm?” Lestrade made distractedly. “Oh, cleared you. Yeah, yeah, you’re good. Solid alibis, the two of you, corroborated by myself, you lucky sods. But of course there’s always the idea that either one of you could have hired someone to do the deed.”

Sherlock snorted. “Of course. But neither John nor I had any motive.”

Lestrade gave him a long look. “Didn’t you?”

Sherlock returned the look to him with interest. “Of course not. It may have escaped your notice but John was going to marry her, he would hardly decide to ruin his own life, let alone in such a brutal manner. And before you ask, I would rather chop off both my arms than cause him any more hurt than I already have.”

The DI stared at him for a little while longer and finally nodded. “Fair enough. I wouldn’t put murder past you-”

“-and nor should you,” Sherlock agreed.

“-but I do believe that you wouldn’t do anything to hurt John and even you can’t possibly have thought killing his bride wouldn’t hurt him.”

“Precisely,” Sherlock confirmed. “Mary made him happy. That is all that matters.”

“You’ve come a long way,” Lestrade noted, clapping him on the shoulder. “I wouldn’t have thought it but here we are. I’m almost proud of you.”

Sherlock made a face. “Please, spare me your outbursts of sentiment.”

“I find it rather amusing to watch you deal with them,” John said from the kitchen doorway, making them both jump and turn to look at him.

“Oh do you now?” Sherlock asked, just as Lestrade said: “Oh, John! I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Just woke up and thought I heard voices,” John said. He crossed his arms and hunched his shoulders. “Well? I assume this is important if you show up in our sitting room at 8:30 in the morning.”

“Uh ... yeah, right. I’ve got some additional questions, if you don’t mind,” Lestrade stammered. “Mind if we sit down?”

John threw an uneasy glance at Sherlock.

“I’ll make tea,” Sherlock said hastily. “You talk to Lestrade.”

They sat down at the kitchen table, still unusually free of any disgusting experiments. Lestrade examined the table surface as if he had never seen one before.

“Don’t think I’ve ever seen this table without anything on it,” he noted.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and flicked on the kettle, rummaging for tea bags. “Tea, Inspector?”

Just as he had intended, his job title reminded Lestrade of what he was doing here. “Nah, thanks, still got my coffee. Anyway, John, about the case ...”

He opened his mouth, closed it and sighed. “Gosh, this is hard. Sorry, I know you’ve got enough on your plate already and there’s no easy way to say any of this, but our medical examiner has finished the, uh, the autopsy, and, uh ...”

He paused again. “Okay, I’ll just come right out and ask and I want you to know I really am sorry, all right?”

“Just spit it out,” John said tiredly. “How much worse can it get?”

Lestrade made a face and said. “Did you know Mary was pregnant?”

The spoons he had just pulled from their kitchen drawer slipped from Sherlock’s grasp and clattered loudly on the floor. He whirled around to take in John’s face, slack-jawed with surprise.

“What?”

“I’m taking that as a no, then,” Lestrade said, glancing at Sherlock. “I suppose you didn’t know, either?”

“I haven’t seen her in a couple of days,” Sherlock said. His voice sounded odd to his own ears. “And female physiology is hardly my speciality. Unless she was showing any clear signs, I would not have had any way to know.”

Lestrade nodded. “God, John, I’m so sorry.”

John, looking paler than Sherlock had seen him even two days ago, shook his head. “I don’t ... she didn’t say anything. And I didn’t notice anything different. My own wi- fiancée, and I didn’t notice...”

“She might not have known herself,” Lestrade said. “She was only seven weeks along, as I understand it.”

Sherlock watched John mouth ‘Seven weeks’ to himself, watched his hands start to shake, and for a frightening moment he hated Lestrade beyond reason. Why tell him this? Why add to John’s misery for no reason? He hadn’t needed to know just how much he had lost, just how much had been taken from him in one fell swoop.

Perhaps Lestrade saw something of what he was thinking on his face because he winced. “I wouldn’t have brought it up on my own,” he murmured. “But standard procedure is to collect a DNA sample from you, John, just to make sure.” He saw the expressions on their faces and hastily added: “It’s just a formality, you know it is, but we have to consider every avenue.”

“Like what?” John asked. “That I found out my fiancée was pregnant, suspected it might not ... not be mine, and had her killed on our wedding day?!”

Even Sherlock flinched at the cutting tone of his voice and Lestrade made a face as if he had a toothache. “Nah, mate. I mean this in the best way possible: you’re a terrible actor. You clearly didn’t know anything about this. The idea is that if by some strange twist you weren’t the father, then whoever was might have motive.”

John frowned. “I’d have expected them to kill me, then.”

Lestrade shrugged, pulling a sample kit from his jacket. “Wouldn’t be the first time a jealous ex killed the woman he supposedly loved for the perceived crime of leaving him and falling in love with someone else. You know that as well as I do.”

They did, but it didn’t make any of this any easier.

“Fine,” John said. “Go wild.”

He opened his mouth and Lestrade carefully collected his sample, stowing away the kit in the inside pocket of his coat afterwards. “Thank you. God, I hate this job sometimes.”

“I don’t blame you,” John said. “Not for that and not for the news you brought. Never did believe in killing the messenger.”

“Thanks,” Lestrade muttered and stood. “I’ll be off then, best get this to the lab as soon as possible. Let me know if there’s anything you need.”

“Will do,” John replied, forcing a smile, and Sherlock knew hell would freeze over before John ever asked the DI for anything.

*****

John barely registered as Lestrade left. He simply sat there, staring at the patterns in the wood of the kitchen table. He had only ever felt this numb in his life once before.

Opposite him, Sherlock didn’t move at all, sitting still and silent in John’s direct line of sight, a steaming mug of tea in front of him. The only sound in the flat was their breathing, Sherlock’s calm and even, John’s deceptively so.

“God,” he finally said, letting his face sink into his hands. “Oh god, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s chair scraped back and a moment later he had rounded the table and was standing next to John, carefully putting one hand on his shoulder. John took a deep, shuddering breath, twisted in his chair and wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s middle, burying his face in his best friend’s stomach. Sherlock’s hand slid off his shoulder and around his back and a moment later Sherlock had both arms wrapped around him in return, holding him close.

“I’m sorry, John.”

It took him three tries to make his voice work. “You haven’t apologised this much in such a short time frame since ... ever, I think.”

“I’m not apologising this time, either,” Sherlock said softly. “I believe people call this ‘expressing sympathy’ though I’m hardly an expert.”

John thought he might have laughed but the sound died in his throat. “Probably. God ... what do I do?”

“What you have always done,” Sherlock murmured. “Grieve for as long as you need, then move on. There’s nothing else you can do.” He paused. “Well, and find whoever did this and tear them to pieces. I’ll gladly help.”

John squeezed him tighter. “I can’t believe ... I’d have been a father, Sherlock. Imagine that. Me, with a little one. Who on earth would have thought that a good idea?”

“You’d have exceeded at it,” Sherlock told him seriously. “Just as you excelled in everything else you do.”

“Don’t confuse me with yourself,” John murmured automatically. “You’d have excelled in being a godfather for sure, though.”

He felt Sherlock go still. “What?”

“Well, who else was I going to ask?” John asked.

He felt the tremor go through Sherlock’s entire body. “Anyone, John. Absolutely _anyone_ else. Have you _met_ me?”

“Well, I’m hardly prime father material, either,” John said. “Perhaps it’s just as ...”

“Don’t,” Sherlock said even as John realised what he had been about to say. “Don’t lie to yourself about this. Please.”

And suddenly, hot tears burned in John’s eyes and his throat was painfully tight. His fingers clenched around the fabric of Sherlock’s threadbare t-shirt and he finally started to cry.


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock held on tight. He would stand here all day long if he had to, would stand here until the end of time if John needed him to. It didn’t matter that his t-shirt was getting wet with tears and who knew what else, it didn’t matter that John’s nose was pressing uncomfortably into his stomach. None of it really registered beyond the surface level of his awareness.

All that mattered was that John was heartbroken all over again and there was nothing Sherlock could do about it.

It was a kind of agony he had never experienced before, this second-hand heartbreak in the face of someone else’s pain. He’d do anything to stop it, to make it better.

Since he couldn’t, all he did do was hold on tight until John managed to calm down enough to stop making those heart-wrenching noises and his body stopped shaking quite so badly.

“Sorry,” he croaked, as if there was anything he needed to apologise for.

Sherlock blinked. “What for?”

“I think I ruined your t-shirt.”

“So what? It’s just a bit of fabric, John. I’ve got plenty more and if I run out, there is a city full of shops desperate to sell me some more right outside our door.” He allowed himself to give John a light squeeze. “There is nothing you need apologise for, John.”

John nodded against his stomach and finally released him, dropping his arms and sitting back a little. Sherlock reluctantly let him go.

“Feel better now?” he asked hopefully.

“Not really,” John sighed. “But a bit, perhaps.”

“Good.” Sherlock took a step back, trying to seem casual. His t-shirt was sticking to his stomach and while he didn’t care about the state of it, it did feel less than comfortable.

“Go get changed,” John ordered, voice still raspy. “I can just about manage to sit here for a bit.”

Sherlock gave him a long, assessing look before doing as he was told. He waited until the bedroom door was closed behind him before releasing a shaky breath and angrily wiping at his own eyes. This was deplorable.

‘ _Godfather.’_

The word ran merry circles through his mind, an exquisite torture he had never even considered until this morning. To have John say he would entrust his child, the most important thing in any halfway decent parent’s life, to Sherlock boggled belief. And to have this happy realisation follow on the footsteps of the knowledge that it was never going to happen, that it was a merely theoretical idea that would never come to pass ... it felt like being robbed of something.

And then there was that other sensation ... the mere hint of an idea of the kind of agony he would have felt when faced with the evidence of John and Mary’s mutual love, walking and talking and entrusted to him for safety.

Sometimes, the universe truly was too cruel for words.

Sherlock wiped at his face again, stripped off his t-shirt and rummaged through his closet for another one. There was no point in getting dressed - clearly they were not going to leave the house today and it would take an entire army to pry him away from John’s side at this moment.

He got changed quickly, marched through the bathroom to splash some cold water on his face, and returned to the kitchen and John.

“Come on,” he said, reaching out a hand to help pull John from his chair. “Let’s finish this list of suspects and send it off to Lestrade so he has something he can work with. You’ve edited out so many of the names in your blog, there’s no way he could use it for any reliable sort of reference for his investigation.”

John allowed himself to be dragged up and followed him into the sitting room. “Yeah, you’re right. Let’s catch whoever did this. I’ve got some extra things I want to kill him for now.”

*****

Time moved in odd blobs and blurs for the rest of the day. One moment, John was in the sitting room for hours that felt like days, reading old case files. The next he was lying down in Sherlock’s bed, weary to the bone.

In contrast, he seemed to have only closed his eyes a second ago when he opened them again to find himself standing in the sitting room of his flat. Sunlight was streaming through the windows and that could not be right, could it? He had only just gone to sleep, it couldn’t be daylight again already, could it? And he was fairly certain he had been at 221b, though he couldn’t remember why he would have been. He lived here now, in a flat in Enfield, far away from Baker Street.

The curtains fluttered in a soft breeze and although the windows were open, he could not hear any noise from outside. No, that was wrong. He heard birds singing outside. Well, that was not entirely unusual for the suburbs, but it still caught him off-guard sometimes.

He looked around the flat, trying to figure out why there was this odd nagging in the back of his head. There was something wrong but he couldn’t quite put his finger on why or what it was.

It was late morning, judging by the angle of the light coming in through the windows, so clearly it was his day off. There was no shift at the surgery that would allow him to still be home at this time of day otherwise.

A soft sound caught his attention - humming, coming from down the other end of the hallway. He smiled to himself and followed the sound out of the sitting room and towards the spare bedroom. They had turned it into an office when they had first moved in, though John honestly couldn’t recall ever having used it for anything but a semi-organised storage room.

The room was changed entirely now. Gone was the desk they had set up, and there was no sign of the two Billy bookcases they had put up against the far wall on either side of the window. Pale green curtains were hung in front of that window now. The smell of fresh paint hung in the air and the room itself was painted a warm yellow, with a row of cartoon elephants parading along at about hip height. John’s gaze followed them to the crib that had been placed in the corner.

Mary stood in front of it with her back to him, looking down into the crib and humming softly.

There was something wrong with this picture, too, and the nagging sensation increased the longer John stood in the door and looked at that scene.

“Mary...”

She stopped humming and turned her head to smile at him over her shoulder. “Oh, John! There you are. Come look.”

He stepped forward, feeling hesitant for no reason he could discern.

The wooden railing of the crib was smooth and soft as butter under his hands but when he leaned forward to look inside, the only thing he saw was a semi-automatic handgun.

Startled, John drew back, turning to look at Mary. She was gazing down at the gun, humming a lullaby, a soft smile on her face. But now that he looked at her properly, he realised there was blood dripping down her face, trickling almost gently from the bullet hole in her forehead.

“ _No.”_

“All right, love? Don’t we have a beautiful life, John?”

He stumbled backwards. “No. No, no, no. Mary ...”

She turned to him and there was another bullet hole in her chest, red blooming on the white of the wedding gown she had not been wearing a moment ago.

“John?” she said. Her tone was concerned but the voice was all wrong.

“ _John? John!”_

That wasn’t Mary. It couldn’t be Mary, but he couldn’t quite recall-

But he did, he _did_ , and then he was awake and the room was spinning around him and his stomach was heaving and there were large hands guiding him up and a warm, familiar baritone, thick with concern, though he couldn’t make out more than the basic gist of what it was telling him.

He was on the bathroom floor with no recollection of how he had gotten there, retching into the toilet, and still the hands were there, holding him up.

Ages seemed to pass, or perhaps he merely blinked, and then he was in bed, still shaking from head to toe, and those same hands were there and he buried his face against a surprisingly hard chest and breathed in the long-missed, half-forgotten scent of home while Sherlock whispered senseless words of comfort in his ear.

And through it all, only one thought remained:

‘ _It’s all my fault.’_

*****

DI Lestrade returned on the afternoon of the following day, looking like a man who hadn’t been getting enough sleep and was getting sick of coffee. Sherlock couldn’t spare him much sympathy. All of his was being used up by John, who had finally ended up with nightmares that night and had spent a miserable hour being sick in the bathroom - a psychological reaction more than a physical one, but Sherlock had been worried nonetheless, keeping him company the entire time.

He had finally managed to talk John into trying to sleep again and he had done so, plastered from head to toe to Sherlock’s side like a starfish clinging to a coral reef.

To see the DI return so soon after his last visit didn’t fill Sherlock with any hope whatsoever.

“Well?” he demanded when it became clear that John was not going to ask and that Lestrade was not going to speak uninvited. “What is it this time?”

Lestrade sighed and slumped onto the sofa. “You’ve made a lot of headway since yesterday,” he noted, gesturing feebly at the files.

“Lestrade!” Sherlock snapped. “Either you tell us why you’re here or you can leave right away. We’re not in the mood for any additional drama, thank you very much.”

“Blimey, Sherlock. Apologies, John. This never gets any easier.” The DI sighed. “I’m here for two reasons. First, we got the DNA results back.”

Sherlock saw the facts in Lestrade’s face a moment before he spoke them out loud. “You’re not the father. We don’t know who is but it isn’t you. I’m sorry.”

John gaped at him. “Excuse me?”

“I asked them to run it twice, just to be sure. Less than 0.1 percent of a chance of you being the father, John. I’m so sorry.”

“That’s impossible,” John said, shaking his head. “Why would she... how could she...?”

And Sherlock found himself making his first proper deduction in days. “Her ex-boyfriend. What’s his name? David?”

That seemed to drag John out of his shocked denial long enough to ask: “How do you know her ex-boyfriend?”

Sherlock gave him a level look. “Well, I wasn’t going to leave anything up to chance, was I? So I invited him ‘round, after I had done some research. He’s been consistently cutting you fully or partially out of any pictures he has of Mary or of pictures of himself with the two of you. It wasn’t hard to deduce he might still have an interest in her. I didn’t realise it might have been mutual, though. I’m sorry.”

“Never thought I’d hear you apologise,” Lestrade muttered, and louder he said: “What’s this guy’s name? He might have held a grudge if he wanted to get back together. And I’ll need to follow up with him and get a DNA sample, of course.”

Sherlock grabbed a pen and paper and scribbled down the name, address and contact details he could recall. “Here.”

“Thanks.” Lestrade stared down at the information for a bit before pocketing it.

“I can’t believe she did this,” John murmured. He turned to Sherlock. “You don’t believe he forced...”

Sherlock shook his head. “Between the two of us, we would have noticed anything that drastically off about her behaviour,” he said. “If she knew about the pregnancy, she might have decided to keep it. He has a similar build and colouring to you, it wouldn’t have been difficult to pass his child off as yours. Without a DNA test, you might never have known.”

John dropped his head in his hands. “Bloody hell, Mary.”

It was the first time he had said her name since the day she had died, Sherlock noted.

“You said there was more,” he said, turning to Lestrade. “You said you had two reasons for coming here. This was number one, what is number two?”

“Oh, right.” Lestrade took a breath and looked at John. “How much do you know about Mary? What did she do before you met her?”

John lifted his head and frowned. “I... she was a nurse. She worked in the same clinic as I did, transferred there about a month after I started. Before that, she worked in a hospital somewhere, I think.”

“And did she always live in London?”

“I think she moved here from Devon about two years ago,” John said. “God, I know so little about her, come to think of it. I know she hasn’t got a family, she’s an orphan. Grew up in an orphanage, she said, and never wants- wanted... to go back. That was all. Why?”

“We can’t find out anything,” Lestrade said. “We’ve got records of employment going back around five years. Before that, nothing. No address, no occupation, we don’t even know if she was in the country or not. There are no records of a Mary Morstan ever having been in any orphanage in the United Kingdom. There are no records of Mary Morstan existing at all. The only one we found was a stillborn girl who died some five and a half years ago.”

“A common method to get a new identity,” Sherlock found himself saying, even as his mind whirled with thoughts and theories and ideas.

John shook his head. “So you’re saying... you’re saying my fiancée not only cheated on me with another man but still wanted to marry me, you’re also saying her name isn’t even her name?”

“That’s what it looks like at the moment,” Lestrade confirmed.

“If Mary wasn’t Mary,” John said slowly, “then who the hell was she?”

*****

Sherlock stood abruptly. “If you’ll excuse me for a while, I need to go and talk to my brother. Lestrade, why don’t you stay for a bit, keep John company?”

“Uh, yeah, all right, but I really need to go back to work-”

“I’m sure you can come up with a couple more questions to ask John,” Sherlock said sharply. “And have you interviewed Mrs Hudson at all? Now if you’ll excuse me.”

He pulled on his coat, turned to John and said “I’ll be back as soon as I can. I’ve got my phone on me. Text me if anything comes up. Or if nothing does.”

John made a noise that might have been agreement and Sherlock rushed out the door and down the stairs, sparing a moment to be grateful he had bothered to get dressed this morning.

He hailed a cab, barked the address at the driver and settled back into his seat, stewing with barely suppressed rage. Mycroft had a lot to answer for.

His dear brother clearly knew he was coming, too, because once he set foot into the building that contained Mycroft’s office, he was immediately met by one of the countless, nameless assistants, who led him straight to the office without any of the usual “Please wait a couple of minutes, sir” that Sherlock usually got to hear and promptly ignored.

The halls were familiar and he knew the only reason Mycroft bothered to have someone show him the way was to avoid Sherlock snooping around in the rest of the building. A ridiculous notion - he had done that years ago.

Mycroft was seated behind his desk, giving every appearance of being immersed in paperwork. Perhaps he had been at some point, but Sherlock knew his brother would have dropped everything the moment he had set foot in the building. Any of the truly classified papers would already be safely locked away.

Mycroft waited until his assistant had closed the door, leaving them alone. “Ah, Sherlock. What brings you to-”

“Was it you?” Sherlock interrupted.

“Was what me?” Mycroft asked.

Sherlock glared at him. “I don’t have the patience for your games today, Mycroft. You know what I’m talking about. The list of people who would have or consider themselves to have a legitimate reason to kill Mary Morstan looks painfully short and you’re right on top.”

“Me?” Mycroft said, managing to look surprised. “Why ever would I...?”

“Remember Victor Trevor?” Sherlock asked and caught the slight tightening around his brother’s eyes. “I do. And I did notice that he didn’t get into any of the universities he applied to. Considering his average, that is nothing short of amazing. You have a history of meddling in the lives of people who are ... close to me. I wouldn’t put it past you to try and get Mary out of the way. In your warped logic, you’d probably consider it a favour.”

Something like hurt flashed across Mycroft’s features but Sherlock didn’t dare trust that it had been real. If Mycroft showed any emotion at all, it was usually carefully calculated to get him the results he wanted.

“Why on earth would I do such a thing?”

“You know why,” Sherlock said shortly.

Mycroft gave him a long look. “Yes, I rather think I do. The question is ... are you really as furious as you would like to believe?”

Sherlock looked away. “Yes. It was going well. Better than could have been expected after ...” He trailed off and shook his head. “Killing her has ruined everything. Every last little thing. John is ... heartbroken. And if I couldn’t compete with her while she was alive, why on earth would I stand a chance against a dead woman’s memory?”

It was a question that had haunted him from the moment Mary’s death had truly sunk in. After the stag night, he had felt ... not hope, but something close to it. The hope for hope, perhaps. But he couldn’t hope to compete against a dead bride.

Mycroft’s expression softened a little. “Oh, Sherlock. To put your mind at rest: No, I did not kill Mary Morstan.” He saw the look on Sherlock’s face and added: “Or ordered, asked, suggested to or even failed to stop someone else’s plan to kill her.”

“Well, you clearly did fail,” Sherlock pointed out. “Seeing as she is dead.”

“I was not aware of any plans regarding Mary beyond John’s immediate intention to marry her,” Mycroft elaborated.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Swear it. We don’t make promises we can’t keep, you and I. Swear it on the one thing in this world that matters to you. A piece of cake, perhaps?”

His brother shrugged. “Fine. I swear it on your life, brother mine.”

Sherlock tilted his head. “An interesting choice. My life doesn’t seem to matter all that much to you if it gets in the way of your little plans. Still, I’ll consider it an acceptable choice.”

“Are you finally going to sit down?” Mycroft asked. “Or was that all you wished to ask?”

“It wasn’t,” Sherlock said, taking a seat. “DI Lestrade just came by the flat, as I’m sure you are aware. I’m equally certain you’ve already had your minions procure copies of all the reports without the Yard’s knowledge.”

“A surprising turn of events,” Mycroft commented. “Poor John really can’t catch a break.”

“Don’t be condescending,” Sherlock snapped. “She must have been very good indeed for me not to notice anything amiss.”

“Do not forget that you have been rather distracted recently,” Mycroft said. “But yes, she must have been.”

Sherlock leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands. “Lestrade said he can’t find anything about Mary’s whereabouts, activities or even her general existence beyond the past five years. I think she may fall directly under your ... jurisdiction.”

Mycroft tilted his head as he processed this. “Interesting. I shall make enquiries.”

“I’m amazed you haven’t already,” Sherlock said.

His brother shrugged. “Just a superficial check for red flags - past convictions, that sort of thing. Nothing popped. I suppose we were looking under the wrong name.”

“Quite,” Sherlock agreed and stood. “I need to get back home. I don’t want to leave John on his own for too long. Do let me know about the results of your enquiries.”

“Naturally,” Mycroft confirmed. “Goodbye, brother mine. Look after your John, will you?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “No, I was obviously planning to throw him under a bus. _Of course_ I will. Goodbye, Mycroft. I’ll see myself out.”


	8. Chapter 8

By the time Sherlock returned home, Lestrade had already left. John was sitting in his armchair, staring at nothing. If he registered Sherlock’s arrival, he gave no sign of it.

It was almost time for dinner but Sherlock wasn’t hungry and something about John suggested that if he even thought about food, he was going to start retching again.

What to do?

Sherlock chewed on his lower lip, hating himself for displaying such an obvious anxious habit but unable to stop himself. It would be fine. It was just John, John wouldn’t judge him. Just as Sherlock had promised not to judge him for any of his reactions to this whole situation.

He sighed and went for his violin. Something gentle and soothing, perhaps even a little sad, was in order. If John didn’t like it, he was free to complain and Sherlock would stop playing but for now his fingers itched and he needed something to focus his mind, to help him make sense of all that had happened.

He started out quietly, playing as softly as a violin could be played without losing the melody, and after a couple of minutes without protest from John he finally relaxed enough to start enjoying himself again.

Playing had always brought him peace. His time away had made him rusty - there was no room for a violin when sleeping under bridges and infiltrating mobs and terrorist cells. It had taken months after his return to get back into sensible shape and manage something that didn’t sound like a cat being tortured. It had almost felt like a blessing that John had not been at Baker Street to hear such a disgraceful noise. Of course, that had been the only upside to his absence and Sherlock would have gladly traded a bit of humiliation for John’s presence.

Now, though, the notes came smoothly, the melody flowing from beneath his fingers and bow as it had always done. He wondered if it was his imagination that made it sound slightly better, even. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to sway along to the music, letting it ease some of his tension and worry and hurt.

After what must have been close to an hour of uninterrupted playing, morphing from one song into the next with barely a pause, Sherlock finally lowered the violin with a sigh.

“That was beautiful,” John said softly. They were the first words he had spoken since Sherlock had left earlier and just hearing his voice was a relief.

“Thank you,” he replied. “I hope I didn’t disturb you.”

John snorted. “I’m actually thankful for it this time. I’m getting sick of my own thoughts.”

He shook his head. “It’s just ... yesterday, I learned my wife was pregnant when she died. Today, I learned that not only wasn’t it my child but she wasn’t even who she claimed to be. I ... what do I even do with this? I know people are going to think or maybe even suggest I go back to therapy, to talk about it, but where do I even begin to unpack this?  _‘My wife was murdered on our wedding day. No need to be quite so sympathetic, it turns out she was a liar and a cheater so no harm done, really’_ ?!”

“You’d never say such a thing,” Sherlock said. “And if you did you wouldn’t mean it. You’re a doctor. Every life matters to you, even the ones you personally had to take.”

John slumped back in his chair. “Sometimes I wish you weren’t quite so good at this.”

“At what?”

“At ignoring what I said and replying to what I was thinking instead.”

Sherlock allowed himself a small smile. “Am I?”

“You do it all the time,” John pointed out. “You can hardly pretend you don’t know.”

And just like that they were bantering again. Sherlock wondered if all their conversations were going to be like this from now on. Would John say something brutally honest about his actual state of mind only to then distract both himself and Sherlock from the topic he himself had brought up? Would they ever manage to get through a linear conversation again? To be honest, they had never been all that good at those anyway, but now it was just plain ridiculous.

“What did Mycroft have to say?” John asked, changing the topic back to serious once again.

Sherlock thought he might end up with whiplash if this continued. “He claimed he had no idea. I’m inclined to believe him because Mycroft doesn’t usually like to admit something slipped through his network. He said he is going to ‘make enquiries’, though.” Sherlock raised his hands to form the quotes in the air, making a face.

John snorted. “Right. And he honestly had no clue?”

“Apparently a background check for past criminal activity doesn’t show any red flags if you happen to be searching for someone who doesn’t exist.”

They both winced at that. Sherlock hurried on. “Did Lestrade say anything else to you after I left?”

“No. He just asked more questions about everything I knew about her. Hobbies, interests, friends, mentions of family members or places she had been. It was exhausting.”

“You look tired,” Sherlock murmured. “You also don’t look like you could eat dinner without getting sick but you should at least have another cup of tea.”

“Look at you, turning on the mothering mode,” John smiled. “The world must have gone truly batshit.”

Years of practice kept Sherlock from letting any hurt whatsoever show. Did John really still think so little of him? “It really must have,” he merely said, turning towards the kitchen. “Any preference?”

“You know what I like,” John muttered, waving his hand dismissively.

Sherlock took that as an indication to get out the PG Tips brand John preferred and switched on the kettle. As he waited for the water to boil, he found himself thinking that he must have made more tea in the past four days than in the entire previous four years.

A couple of minutes of aimlessly looking around the kitchen passed in silence until the kettle clicked off and Sherlock was able to occupy himself with pouring it into two mugs and adding the tea bags, milk and sugar.

“One of these days, I’m going to make us a proper Chai,” he mused.

John turned his head. “A ‘proper’ Chai tea?”

“Just Chai,” Sherlock corrected. “Chai already means ‘tea’. Calling it a ‘Chai tea’ would be like saying ‘tea tea’. And yes, a proper one. Made with milk instead of water. It improves the flavour.”

“When did you have time to learn about how to make a proper cup of Chai?” John asked. “I don’t think it comes up in cases all that often.”

“You could easily kill someone with poisoned plants mixed in with the tea leaves,” Sherlock promptly said. “Or by hiding something in the teabag. Hardly difficult, is it? But I did in fact learn about it in a monastery in Nepal. I happened to be passing through and they offered me a room for a couple of nights. Just as well, really, it was dreadfully cold out.”

He put the tea tray down on the small table next to John’s armchair. “Here you go.”

“Thanks,” John said, dunking his teabag a little to get some more flavour out of it. “When was that?”

“Hm?”

“You, going to Nepal.”

“About a year and a half ago,” Sherlock said quietly. “I had traced a part of Moriarty’s network there. The nature was beautiful, the cleanest air I have ever breathed, but it was so cold I never really got to appreciate any of it for long. And of course I was a bit busy.”

“Right,” John muttered. “Busy.”

Sherlock leaned forward in his chair. “I hated every hour I was away,” he said firmly. “Whatever you may think about what happened and what I did or didn’t do - don’t ever think that there was even a single moment where I didn’t want to just go home.”

He hoped John believed him. Those two years had been ... well, terrible, frankly put, and coming home hadn’t been much better. Not when he had returned only to find that ‘home’ was now an empty, John-less flat while the man himself had managed to get engaged on the very day of what had been supposed to be Sherlock’s triumphant return. He didn’t like thinking about that time.

“Wasn’t there?” John asked quietly and there was a different kind of hurt in his eyes to the one Sherlock had seen these past few days.

“Not a single moment,” he repeated softly. “I wanted to come home, or at least have you there with me, and I couldn’t have either for so long. Nepal was an exceptionally nice part of my journey. I even had a room to sleep in. I mostly slept in the streets, under bridges or behind skips. Sometimes in a skip if it was exceptionally windy and the skip was dry enough.”

He knew it wasn’t what John had been imagining to fuel his continued anger with Sherlock on this subject. John had never made a secret of the fact that he thought Sherlock had gone off on adventures without him, finally free of the burden John perceived himself to be. He couldn’t be further from the truth. But he had never said it openly, had never asked or given Sherlock any opportunity to explain, to defend himself.

Perhaps the time had finally come.

*****

John stared at Sherlock, tried to find any hints of a lie in his face or the tone of his voice, but all he saw was honesty and a mute resignation that suggested Sherlock didn’t really expect him to believe him. There was something else in his eyes, too, a shadow John didn’t want to know about, didn’t want to see. They already had so much darkness between them. Perhaps it was time to let in some light.

He sighed. “That doesn’t sound at all like what I thought you were doing,” he admitted. “I thought you were just gallivanting about, solving cases on an international level and having the time of your life.”

Sherlock smiled sadly and shook his head. “No, it wasn’t like that at all. If it had been, I would have brought you with me. I wanted to bring you with me. I came up with about six different ways to smuggle you out of the country without anyone getting suspicious, but Mycroft shot them all down.” He frowned. “He was right, of course. It was too dangerous.”

John frowned. Too dangerous, eh? As if that had ever-

“Not just for you,” Sherlock said quickly, clearly realising what he was thinking. “For everyone. Myself, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade ... we couldn’t possibly have taken them along, or put them under sufficient protection. Everyone already thought I was dead, no one was expecting me to show up anywhere. And you were ... grieving ... and so they believed that I was truly gone. They kept an eye on you, you know? I’m sure they did. If I had shown my face, if someone had uncovered my identity at any point while I was gone, they would have killed all of you. They saw you grieving and alone and they were convinced I was truly dead. Imagine how suspicious they would have been if you had conveniently died as well.” He shook his head. “Every day I was away, I was afraid today would be the day where someone would realise what I had done, that they would kill you, all of you, and it would all have been for nothing. I never wanted that, John. I never wanted any of it.”

John watched the agony flash across Sherlock’s face, his voice shaking with an echo of the fear he had just confessed to. It was impossible not to believe him. It was impossible to think that Sherlock had enjoyed it, had liked being gone. _‘Six different ways to smuggle me out’_ he thought. Sherlock rarely came up with that many possibilities for anything. He usually had a Plan A and perhaps a Plan B if things went wrong and an emergency Plan C, usually labelled ‘Let’s make it up as we go along’ for when things went  _really_ wrong. Six was excessive.

“How is it,” he began slowly, “that I managed to be so wrong about the two people closest to me? How is it possible that I managed to believe the worst of you and the best of her at the same time and be wrong on both counts?”

Sherlock shrugged. “You simply weren’t in possession of all the facts, John. I keep telling you, it’s dangerous to speculate with insufficient data.”

John barked a laugh. “Right. But how was I supposed to know I  _had_ insufficient data?”

That was tricky indeed. “Well, in my case, you could have simply asked,” Sherlock suggested. “But you always shut me down when I tried to talk about it. I finally assumed you just ... didn’t want to know.”

Feeling a bit guilty for having let Sherlock believe such a thing, John shook his head. “No, no. I was just ... I wanted to be angry with you. I needed to be angry, I think, but I held on to it for a lot longer than I should have. And if I had asked and you had told me any of this sooner, I would not have been willing to let go of all this anger, even if it was irrational. I’m sorry I made you suffer in the process.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to claim he hadn’t suffered but couldn’t quite bring himself to lie to John’s face. “I forgive you,” he said instead. “If you can forgive yourself, too.”

John smiled sadly. “I’ll try.”

A comfortable silence settled between them and they leaned back in their chairs, sipping their tea and allowing themselves to simply be.

John felt almost ... happy. It was a terrible thing, he thought, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to feel anything else but content. Why should he? The wife he was supposed to mourn had apparently never existed. It was hard to grieve for someone if you couldn’t be sure who they had even been and when the one thing you did know for certain was that they had betrayed you in the worst way a spouse possibly could.

“I’m glad,” he finally said and watched Sherlock startle, clearly torn from his own thoughts. Those piercing eyes fixed on him, wary and a little hopeful.

“I’m glad the baby wasn’t mine,” he finished his sentence. “I wouldn’t have made a good father - I would have done anything for a child but I never really wanted to have any, if that makes sense. I think I would have resented them, or Mary, for putting so many restrictions on my life. Can’t go running after criminals and risk your life when there’s a little kid depending on you to come home, can you? I don’t think I would have been good at leading such a life. So ... in a way I won’t have to mourn my unborn child.” He sighed, shoving his hand through his hair. “There’s still an innocent life lost, though. And whatever the hell Mary did or didn’t do, I’m sure she didn’t deserve to die like this.”

Sherlock said nothing, just watched him patiently, attentively, as if every single word John said was being recorded for posterity. It was both flattering and disturbing to be on the receiving end of such pointed attention. He averted his eyes to avoid meeting Sherlock’s penetrating gaze and caught sight of the files still scattered about. “How about we finish these? I admit there’s a big chance whoever killed her did so over whatever it was she was hiding about her past, but as you just reminded me, we shouldn’t speculate with insufficient data. So let’s finish our list of suspects and send it to Lestrade, yeah?”

He looked back to Sherlock in time to see a slow smile spread over his friend’s face. “My pleasure.”

Grinning back, John grabbed the closest pile of files and threw it at him. “Here, you take those, I’ll take these.”

“Whatever you say, Captain,” Sherlock muttered, ducking behind the first file.

John found he was still smiling as he bent over his own pile of papers. This time, he didn’t feel guilty about it.

*****

They went to bed late, with just one pile of unchecked files left for each of them.

“We can do those tomorrow,” Sherlock said firmly, if a bit uncharacteristically. “You’ve been yawning more than you have been reading, John. It’s time to go to bed.”

John nodded, wondering if Sherlock found it odd that in all these days of aimlessly sitting in the flat, John somehow hadn’t gotten around to putting his old room in order so he could sleep there again. Or perhaps Sherlock did and simply didn’t want to say anything about it. John found himself hoping he wouldn’t. The thought of sleeping up there, alone in that cold, dark room, was not one he fancied. He needed Sherlock there, needed to feel his pulse and hear his quiet breathing and know without doubt that at least this one person was exactly who and where they were supposed to be.

Either way, Sherlock didn’t comment or even seem to question John’s continued presence in his bed. John wondered if, after all that had happened in the past three years, Sherlock might be in need of some company as well. Two years of sleeping under bridges and in skips, alone and hunted by criminals, could definitely make anyone long for a warm bed and someone safe to share it with.

They got comfortable in their now customary positions and John allowed himself to shift a little closer. He distinctly remembered waking in the middle of the previous night, plagued by dreams he didn’t want to think about for another moment. 

Sherlock had been there, though, warm and alive, saying his name and keeping him company in the bathroom and pulling John closer afterwards until his head was pressed to Sherlock’s chest and he could feel his heart beating beneath his ear and feel Sherlock’s warm breath ghost across his skin. He had held on for dear life, even as the grief and the horror wrenched out of him in terrible, heaving sobs that left his entire body shaking. And Sherlock hadn’t let go for even a moment.

They had never been the type to touch overly much but it seemed that whatever wall had stood between them was now gone.

After years of friendship and absence and upheaval, they had finally reached a point where John didn’t think twice about shuffling closer.

The events of the past couple of days were still fresh in his mind and he found it amazing how he managed to pretend it was all fine for long stretches of time during the day, yet the moment he was wrapped in comforting darkness, all his nightmares came out to play. Perhaps it was the idea of remaining unseen in the dark that lured them out, of the privacy of giving in to his grief and shock without anyone the wiser. Anyone but Sherlock, that was, who seemed to have been entirely serious about his promise not to judge John for anything.

Even now, when John moved closer, Sherlock mirrored him until they were pressed together, side by side, John on his back and Sherlock stretched out on his front, comfortable and warm.

It was easy to fall asleep.

It wasn’t quite so easy to wake up at 2:33am, shaking and gasping from yet another nightmare.

He couldn’t even say what it had been about, only that people had died and there had been a baby involved somehow, though he wasn’t quite sure in which capacity. But the emotions tied to the dream lingered, sharp as knives under his skin.

John wasn’t surprised at all to find himself once more ensconced in Sherlock’s arms, large hands pressed into his back and a soft voice murmuring comfort in his ear.

“Shhhh, it’s all right, it’s okay. You’re safe here.”

Gasping, John buried his face in Sherlock’s chest and tried to breathe.

It took a couple of minutes until he managed to speak.

“What did I do?” he asked. “What did I ever do to deserve this?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock whispered, tightening his hold. “You did nothing wrong, John.”

“Then why did any of this happen?” John demanded. “Why would some random stranger choose me, of all people, to use for what we can only assume is some sort of con? I don’t even have any money that would have made it worth her while.”

“I don’t think it had anything to do with money,” Sherlock said softly.

John blinked, torn from his self-flagellation by the odd note in his friend’s voice. “You have a theory.”

Sherlock sighed. “You said... you said she started working at the clinic about a month after you did. She might have... might have been sent there. To get close to you. To keep an eye on you.”

“By marrying me?” John asked doubtfully.

Sherlock shrugged. “Who knows. Perhaps she was only supposed to befriend you. Perhaps she truly did love you. That’s not exactly a difficult thing to imagine.”

“And yet she still found it in her to sleep with another man,” John pointed out bitterly. “Must have been a great love indeed.”

“Hmm, she definitely went about it all wrong,” Sherlock agreed. “But you loved her and you deserved better.”

“I don’t know who I loved,” John admitted. “She wasn’t even real. I’m not ... not even sure I’m grieving her. I’m just grieving the person I thought she was, and the life I thought we were going to have, even though none of it was real.”

“That doesn’t invalidate your feelings,” Sherlock said. “You’re allowed to grieve all that. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise, not even yourself.”

“Easier said than done,” John muttered. “But thank you all the same.”

“You’re welcome,” Sherlock murmured. “Now go back to sleep, John. You need it.”

“I notice you’re excluding yourself from that statement,” John pointed out. “Don’t even try to stay up. It’s barely 3am, you need to sleep, too.”

“And so I will, if you do,” Sherlock told him.

John smiled. “Berk. Good night.”

“Good night, John.”

Wrapped up safely in Sherlock’s arms, John allowed himself to sink back into sleep, reassured that at least one person in the world was convinced of his worth.


	9. Chapter 9

This was torture, Sherlock thought.

Here he was with John Watson fast asleep in his arms and it didn’t mean anything. It was just something that had happened, that needed to happen to keep John from falling to pieces or to at least help him put himself back together.

Sherlock had never thought he would ever have any of this. Oh, he had hoped for it once, of course he had. Months and years of fantasising about what it might be like, of wishing that maybe one day the stars would align and John would open his eyes and really see him.

But he had never for a moment actually believed it would happen. And it still hadn’t.

It had never occurred to him that he might get some of this - the closeness, the quiet comfort of sharing a bed with John - without any of the rest. He still wasn’t sure how he felt about it, either.

Was it progress? Was this ... good?

He knew it couldn’t go on forever. Sooner rather than later, John would scrape himself back together. He was good at doing that. In fact, he was already taking the first steps. He had gone from mourning Mary to mourning Mary and a child to mourning a life he might have had and trying to accept the fact that the woman he had loved had betrayed him and lied to him over and over again.

Sherlock hated her with a burning passion. He hated her with every fibre of his being and it felt so good to finally allow himself to do so, to have a legitimate reason to resent her beyond the mind-blowing jealousy he had been faced with before. At least now he was justified in his loathing. At least now he was allowed to be glad to his very bones that she was dead and gone.

It would take John some time to get there, but Sherlock didn’t have any emotional attachment he had needed to let go of first.

John made a small sound and Sherlock held his breath, waiting anxiously to see if he was going to wake up again. Was this the first indication of another nightmare? No, John was too relaxed for that. But perhaps the tension would come later. Best to keep an eye on him, to stand - or, in this case, lie - guard beside him and keep the horror at bay.

To be entrusted with John’s pain, to be allowed to help him through it, was more than Sherlock had ever fathomed possible.

He stared down at the man asleep in his bed, in his arms, and tried to wrap his mind around the reality of all this. This strong, deceptively compact body was right here, warm and alive and _holding on to him_ as if he might disappear. It was so far outside his experience, he didn’t even know how to feel about it beyond awed.

But it wasn’t going to last, he knew that. It couldn’t possibly.

John would remember that he had a perfectly adequate room upstairs and get it cleaned out and habitable once more. And once he did, Sherlock would be left with this empty bed full of memories of John in it. How was he going to deal with that? How was he supposed to ever find rest again without John right there?

He decided he would get to that problem when he got to it. No point in worrying about it until it happened, right? And in the meantime, he would simply live in quiet dread of the day when John announced it was time for him to move back into his own room.

And then Sherlock thought: _‘But what if he doesn’t? What if he decides to move back into the flat he shared with Mary?’_

The very thought was so thoroughly appalling, Sherlock felt his entire mind shy away from it.

No. No, that couldn’t be happening, could it? He couldn’t lose John all over again now that he had just gotten him back. Surely the universe wasn’t that cruel.

But he had been wrong before.

He thought about his original plans for John’s wedding night, of the decision, no, the realisation he had come to as he had stood in a florist’s shop some weeks ago, arguing about which flowers to use in the church decorations. One moment, he had been fully engaged in the argument and the next he had seen the postcard tacked to the wall behind the till - some tropical beach, nothing unusual. But it had made him realise that after the wedding came the honeymoon, and then the happily ever after, and none of it would include him. His role in John’s life had to end on the day of the wedding. And Sherlock had known, as surely as he knew the atomic weight of potassium, that he had to go and find some cocaine as soon as possible. He had known he would need it once the ceremony was over and John was well and truly lost to him.

And yet he had been wrong. Mary had died and the wedding had never happened and here he was, still clean and with John asleep in his arms.

That was better than his wildest dreams could have conjured.

But then again, he had also been wrong in the other direction before, turning too far towards optimism. If he never had to think about John’s reaction to his return and the miserable couple of days that had followed, it would still be too soon.

He let out a quiet sigh. It was pointless to speculate. John was unpredictable in all the wrong moments and this was sure to be one of them. So Sherlock would allow himself to hope for the best and brace himself for the worst and perhaps be pleasantly surprised for once.

John shifted in his sleep, one of his hands moving into a different position and trailing down Sherlock’s side as it did so to come to a rest at his hip. He shivered and tensed but John slept on and Sherlock gradually relaxed into his touch.

Yes, he thought. This was worth it. Whatever happened, happened, and in the meantime he would gobble up as many of these moments as he could get and keep them in a safe place in his mind palace where they could never be taken from him.

He closed his eyes and allowed himself to drift back to sleep.

*****

John woke to the certain knowledge that something, somewhere, had somehow gone wrong.

He knew this because he was plastered to Sherlock from head to toe (which could probably be considered acceptable as it wasn’t the first time this had happened) and also, more pressingly, because one of his hands was quite warm indeed.

He took stock of his body in relation to Sherlock’s and realised unhappily that this was because his hand had somehow slipped underneath Sherlock’s t-shirt to rest on his back, having slid up enough to almost reach his shoulder blades.

The moment he processed this knowledge was the moment Sherlock woke, too, perhaps drawn from sleep by the sudden tension in John’s body. It was a tension Sherlock immediately mirrored.

For a second, John worried that his friend simply didn’t like to be touched but that didn’t make much sense in the context of the past couple of days. But as no other option presented itself, John had to assume he had somehow crossed a line.

“Sorry,” he murmured and tried to withdraw his hand. He only made it an inch or two before his brain registered what his nerve endings were telling him and he promptly froze again, then carefully spread his fingers. Sherlock tensed further beneath his touch.

John tried to keep his breathing calm and his body relaxed. He was afraid that if he moved even a little, he would have to run to make it to the bathroom in time to be violently sick. He carefully brushed his fingers across the scar tissue once more. Sherlock let out a tiny, shuddering breath, and his muscles twitched.

“You didn’t have those at Buckingham Palace,” John said slowly, softly.

There was a long silence.

“No,” Sherlock agreed in a small voice. With the way they were lying, Sherlock’s chin rested on top of John’s head. There was no way for John to see his face. He wasn’t sure he wanted to, even if he could have.

He let Sherlock’s reply sink in for a bit before trying to speak again but couldn’t find the words.

He remembered what Sherlock had said about his time away, about how it hadn’t been a holiday, how being in Nepal and having a room of his own had been exceptionally nice. He now found himself wondering just how much worse than sleeping under bridges the rest of the time had actually been.

Unable to put into words what he felt, he carefully traced the scar again. It was a long, straight line leading diagonally across Sherlock’s back. There were several additional lines, running almost parallel to the first one, some crossing over it. Sherlock was tense as the strings of his violin beneath his hand and John had to fight back the nausea as he mapped out the lines and put them on a mental image of a human back.

“When...?”

“You know when,” Sherlock said softly.

John barely managed to keep his tone even as he replied. “How...?”

“You know that, too,” Sherlock murmured. “Whip marks are very distinctive.”

John squeezed his eyes closed. He could barely hear Sherlock over the roaring in his ears but his friend continued speaking anyway, in a terrible matter-of-fact tone. “Of course whips are very narrow and cut into the skin, so it’s easier to leave visible marks that way. The same can’t be said about a-” his voice gave out for a moment, which was almost worse than the matter-of-fact tone he tried so hard to keep up “-a lead pipe. Too blunt, it would only leave deep-tissue bruising and broken bones if wielded with enough force.”

His voice was barely audible for the last two words and John shook his head fiercely, pressing his face into the curve of Sherlock’s neck. “God, no.”

He didn’t know how he managed to slot himself closer, how he managed to curl around Sherlock and hold him that little bit tighter. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Sherlock said softly. “It was worth it.”

John shook his head again, feeling his throat close up. “How can you say that?”

“It was that or watch you die,” Sherlock said gently. “You and Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. What are a couple of scars compared to that?”

John extracted his free hand from under his own body to wipe at his eyes. “Don’t act like this is okay.”

“It’s not,” Sherlock said. “It wasn’t then and it isn’t now. But if I were given the same choice again, I wouldn’t change a thing.”

“That’s ... Sherlock....”

But it was Sherlock’s turn to shake his head. “No. If our roles had been reversed, you would have made the same choice. Don’t pretend you wouldn’t have.”

John couldn’t even argue with him and he hated that. He wanted to argue but he knew that Sherlock was right. Three lives? Hell, John would have done it for complete strangers.

“Just ... tell me one thing,” he murmured. “Are they dead? The people who did this, are they dead?”

Sherlock sighed. “Yes.”

John nodded. “Good. That’s good.”

“Sorry you can’t go on a crusade to avenge me,” Sherlock said. “This was the price I paid to come home, to still have a home to come back to. I’m never going to be sorry for it.”

“Yeah, no, I get that. I just ... hate that this was the choice you had to make.”

“Well, these events in particular weren’t a choice per se,” Sherlock said. “It was part and parcel of the mission. And when they captured me, it was this or answer all their questions and then you would have died. I never even considered it.”

“Of course you didn’t,” John said, holding him even closer and letting his hand trail over Sherlock’s back again. “You truly are the best and bravest man I ever met, aren’t you? Of course you never even considered letting anyone else come to harm, you brilliant madman.”

Sherlock didn’t reply, simply returned John’s embrace and held on tight. Perhaps that in itself was already response enough.

*****

Sherlock lost all track of time on how long they spent like this, wrapped up in each other with John’s warm hand on his back, tracing the scars Sherlock had tried so hard to hide from him as if they were just another facet of him rather than a complete and utter redefinition of who he was. He could only hope that John would never make the mental leap to wondering when precisely he had received these wounds.

With the state of mind John was currently in, Sherlock really didn’t want to have to explain to him that he had shown up at the Landmark with fresh stitches and bandages all over his back. John had already gotten enough news to turn his world on its head this week. There was no need to add more guilt for something beyond his control to the pile.

And it had been beyond his control, it truly had. Perhaps he could have stopped himself from shoving Sherlock to the floor but that was hardly fair. He had been entitled to his anger. Time and distance had allowed Sherlock to understand and accept that. After all, if John had tackled him to the floor to hug him from sheer joy, the result would have been the same. Of course there would be consequences to his leaving for two years, of pretending to be dead. He merely hadn’t expected them, or John’s fury. Or Mary.

And now all of that was gone and all that remained were the scars on his back and the fresh horror in John’s voice and body language as he tried not to imagine what Sherlock must have gone through and clearly failed.

Sherlock didn’t know how he felt about that. He didn’t know how he felt about anything at all. He had never wanted John to find out about any of this and now he had and it seemed they would eventually have to talk about this because there was no way John was going to let this go. He may be too surprised and perhaps even shocked at the moment to say anything, but he would eventually.

Still, Sherlock wasn’t ready for it when John said, voice trembling: “Can I ... can I see? Will you show me?”

He tensed, trying to swallow past the sudden panic the idea of being shirtless and exposed to another person’s, another man’s, gaze caused in him.

‘ _He won’t hurt me, he won’t hurt me, he won’t hurt me’_ Sherlock reminded himself. _‘He doesn’t even have a whip, for god’s sake. Why would he?’_

“All right,” he found himself saying, before he had quite finished thinking it through. It was hardly as if John could get any less interested in him. Seeing his ruined back wasn’t going to make him feel even less attracted to Sherlock than he already was. And ... well, it would be ... reassuring, in a way, to have a doctor he trusted take a look at the injuries and give him an honest verdict.

John loosened his hold on him and Sherlock carefully sat up, allowing himself a moment to mourn the absence of John’s warm hand on his skin.

He sat on the edge of the mattress with his back to John and, after taking one more deep, fortifying breath, pulled his rumpled t-shirt over his head.

It was already quite bright in the room but John switched on the bedside lamp anyway. There was a soft gasp as he beheld Sherlock’s back.

“God, Sherlock.”

“God had nothing to do with this,” Sherlock said softly, curling his shoulders forward and ducking his head. “I’m quite certain that if such an entity exits, even it would be appalled.”

“Not by the sight of this,” John murmured. “Only by the cause of it.”

Sherlock heard and felt the mattress move as John shifted and a moment later his warm hands were back on Sherlock’s back, both of them this time, pressed to his shoulder blades. Blunt, warm fingers skimmed over the smaller scars there, an index finger pressing into the five burn scars down his spine, one after the other. One, two, three, four, five.

Both hands followed the path of the whip marks, long, angry red slashes running diagonally across his back from his right shoulder to his left hip, criss-crossing every so often.

“How long?” John asked softly. “How long were you in that place?”

It took Sherlock three attempts to answer, his voice breaking away each time he tried to form the words. “Three... three months,” he finally managed.

There was a long, agonising minute of silence.

Then two strong arms wrapped around him from behind and he felt John press his face into the dip between his shoulder blades, hot air puffing across Sherlock’s sensitive skin.

John’s hands locked around him and he linked his fingers, holding Sherlock tight in the circle of his arms. After a long moment’s hesitation, Sherlock allowed himself to cover John’s hands with his own. “It was ... not good. I thought I was going to die. After a while I wanted to. And all the time I was so... afraid.”

He shook his head, staring down at the floor. “I was so afraid they were going to discover my true identity, that the cover story Mycroft had created wasn’t good enough, that someone would realise who I was.”

He turned a little and John pulled back so they could look at each other.

“If they had found out ... if they had killed you...” Sherlock shook his head. “I wouldn’t have made it, John. Knowing I kept you alive all this time was the only thing that kept me going. If you had died just as I was on the homestretch, if it had all turned out to have been for nothing, I would have put a bullet through my brain at the first opportunity unless they killed me before I got the chance. Every day I thought would be the day where they’d drag you in and shoot you right in front of me.”

He took a deep, shuddering breath. “Sometimes I still dream they do.”

“I didn’t notice,” John murmured. “You didn’t seem to dream at all these past few nights.”

Sherlock nodded. “That’s because I didn’t. You were there. It helped you to have me there. It helped me, too.”

John stared at him for a long moment, then nodded. “Fair enough. Guess I’m just going to stay a little longer then. I was afraid you didn’t actually want me here.”

Sherlock barked a laugh. “Oh, John.”

He didn’t dare elaborate, hoping that even that had still been too obscure for John to guess at his thoughts. It would be the height of irony if John found out now.

But John, thankfully, had turned his attention back to Sherlock’s back. His fingers once again traced the scars there, following the long lines of the whip lashes.

“They are going to fade quite a bit,” he said. “Scar tissue usually does after a while. I’m sure they’re already a lot better than when you first came home.”

“I dare say,” Sherlock muttered. “They could hardly get any worse than that.”

John stilled. “You said... you said _‘just as I was on the homestretch’_ ... when you were so close to coming back. Sherlock ... when did you get these?”

Damn it.

Sherlock tensed again. “I was in Serbia,” he finally volunteered. “It was the last stop on my journey. I was supposed to infiltrate them but they caught me. I fled but they were faster. They had dogs and helicopters and it was cold and dark. Of course they got me. Three months in their cells. I nicked the key to the locks of my chains from one of the guards. I intended to try to escape. The plan was to either flee or die trying. I couldn’t stand it any more. Of course that was the very day that Mycroft showed up to get me out. We made sure no one else made it out of the compound and then burned the whole thing to the ground.”

John stared and stared and stared.

Finally, he swallowed. “So... what you’re saying is ... that this ...” He gestured at Sherlock’s back. “....all of this was still a gaping wound when you came home?”

“Mycroft had me see a very good, very discreet doctor who does all sorts of patch-up jobs for certain people. He did his best. And of course some of the wounds were older because I got them in other places. That small scar near my left kidney is from a knife to the back in Bangladesh.”

“Sherlock.” John said and his tone brooked no argument.

Sherlock sighed. “But yes, if you must know, most of these were in fact still freshly stitched up when I returned.”

“When you came to the Landmark,” John said hollowly. “And I shoved you to the floor.”

“You couldn’t have known,” Sherlock said softly. “I don’t blame you for any of it, John. I shouldn’t have assumed that you would just be all right with this. I did hurt you terribly. I was hardly in a position to expect you to just ... accept all that had happened with a smile and a nod and go back to the way things used to be. I wanted you to, I wanted it a lot. But I knew it wasn’t going to happen the moment I walked into the restaurant and saw you sitting there with that terrible moustache on your face and all that grey hair and the suit and the ... the ring box.”

His voice broke again and this time he simply gave up and fell silent. Just thinking of that moment hurt. Back then, it had hurt more than anything else, more than the whippings, more than the wounds throbbing on his back. Even more than walking away from John two years before. Because that had been to save his life and his return had been supposed to be this grand reunion and instead John had been the one to walk away. Sherlock couldn’t and wouldn’t blame him for it.

He shivered and reached for his t-shirt again, pulling it over his head to hide the scars. “It doesn’t matter anymore. It’s all over anyway.”

“Is it?” John asked softly.

Sherlock shrugged. “It has to be. I’m back, you’re back, Mary is gone. We’re right where we were before I got us into this mess. Except this time Moriarty is also gone. We won’t have to worry about him anymore, thank god.”

“Thank _you_ , you mean,” John corrected. “I doubt god had anything to do with _that_ , either.”

He reached for Sherlock’s arm and pulled him back down. “Come, it’s too early to be up yet. Let’s get some more sleep.”

Sherlock sighed but lay down obediently. “I don’t know if I will be able to sleep after all this.”

“Try,” John murmured. “But stay here with me.”

“Always,” Sherlock promised. His throat clicked as he swallowed. “Always, John. I promise.”

He didn’t ask John to promise the same. He knew it wasn’t going to happen. Sooner or later, John would leave. Even though he had granted them both a stay of execution, had allowed them this moment and confirmed he didn’t intend to go anywhere. For now, they were safe and sound and John would continue to sleep right here, with him. It was more than Sherlock could allow himself to hope for.


	10. Chapter 10

They did manage to doze a little or at least John thought he did, though it didn’t last long in his case. He had felt Sherlock slip back into sleep after a surprisingly short amount of time. Perhaps the conversation and his confession had drained him despite his words about not being able to sleep again.

John himself was too shaken up to drift back off, though. His thoughts kept returning to Sherlock’s ruined back, to the patchwork of scars on his skin and the way he had shrugged it off. To the deadness in his voice as he confessed to planning his escape in the hopes of getting killed in the attempt. The way his voice had broken at the mention of a lead pipe and broken bones.

The pain must have been excruciating. And yet he had come home and almost instantly tried to seek out John, had barely allowed Mycroft to have someone patch him up before going to find him. As if that was all that mattered, as if his own pain, his own body, was secondary to John being there.

Perhaps it was. Sherlock did everything in extremes, after all. Why not this? 

But John couldn’t quite bring himself to believe that because he didn’t believe he was worth such a strong response. And yet Sherlock was still here, soft pale skin forever marred by mindless violence, by outright torture for the sake of information he had refused to give. Because even when he was being tortured, Sherlock had still made John his priority, had refused to do or say anything that might endanger him. And what had he gotten in return? John’s stupid, stupid fury.

Anger management had never been a great strength of his. He usually let things simmer for too long and then eventually he exploded. It was how he had ended up punching the Chief Superintendent in the nose and it was how he had ended up shoving Sherlock to the floor of a posh restaurant, his hands around his throat, trying to kill him for the crime of not being dead after all.

John shuddered. Next to him, Sherlock snuffled in his sleep and shifted closer, hands reaching for John and curling in his t-shirt. 

He stared down at those long fingers wrapped around the threadbare fabric of his sleep shirt and felt an almost unbearable tenderness wrap around his heart. God, this man. 

Had anyone ever been a better, kinder, more selfless human being? Had anyone ever done half as much for John as Sherlock had? He couldn’t recall but he was reasonably sure the answer was no.

A new lease on life, a cured psychosomatic limp, joy and adventure and a sense of purpose. Saving his life over and over again, accepting every punishment, planning John’s wedding for him as if it was just another thing Sherlock Holmes simply did when it was so clear that it really wasn’t.

Sherlock Holmes wasn’t the type to plan a fluffy wedding with cakes and dresses and lilac tablecloths. Sherlock Holmes took John to crime scenes and beamed when you called him ‘brilliant’ and taunted killers and ran after criminals into dark alleys. And yet he had done everything John had wanted and somehow turned himself into a wedding planner. And it was obvious, had always been obvious, that he had done it because it had been John who had asked him to.

John tried to imagine anyone else asking Sherlock to do such a thing and could only come up with him snorting in response and refusing to get involved in any of the silly sentimental nonsense. Yet John had been the exception.

Why?

Why would Sherlock do such a thing? What did he see in John that compelled him to act in the most selfless manner John had ever heard of?

It was a mystery and one that he wanted to solve. He had a feeling the answer might be vital in some way, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on the why and how of it all.

Perhaps in a day or two, or in a couple of weeks, the answer would come to him and he would slap his forehead and say  _“Oh yes, of course”_ and Sherlock would look at him like he was an idiot.

It was quite a likely scenario, after all. It had happened many times before.

Suddenly, John couldn’t wait to have it happen again, to return to the crazy, mad life they had led.

*****

John’s musings were interrupted when Sherlock made a soft sound in his sleep. His whole body twitched and another sound escaped him.

It was a tiny, barely there whimper. John’s blood turned to ice.

Another twitch, another tightly suppressed sound and Sherlock began to shake, a gentle tremor running through his body. John felt the vibration through the mattress and didn’t like it.

He reached out, putting a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, and flinched when Sherlock jerked so violently he almost elbowed John in the stomach.

“Shhhh, it’s just me,” John murmured. “Sorry, didn’t meant to startle you. Sherlock?”

But Sherlock was evidently still asleep, trapped in a nightmare. It wasn’t hard to imagine what had brought it on or what it might be about.

John shook his shoulder a little. “Sherlock.”

He didn’t get a response, so he tried again, reaching for Sherlock’s other arm to turn him over so he could see his expression and find a better way of waking him.

However, the moment his hand made contact, with Sherlock’s skin, his friend startled awake and, in one swift movement, grasped John’s wrist and flipped them around.

Barely two heartbeats later, John found himself on his back with his hands stretched above his head, knuckles smarting from where they had hit the headboard, and Sherlock hovering above him, wide-eyed and panting.

“It’s just me,” John repeated, trying to make himself look as non-threatening as he could while his heart was still hammering in his throat.

Sherlock blinked, blinked again, and finally seemed to actually register what he was seeing.

He frowned down at John, puzzled. “What...?”

“You were having a nightmare,” John said, still keeping his voice deliberately calm. “I tried to wake you but you came out of it and immediately moved to defend yourself. Great reflexes, by the way.”

Sherlock looked away. “My apologies.”

“Don’t bother. I was the one who caused all this. If I hadn’t reminded you with all my questions...”

But Sherlock shook his head. “You know that’s not how dreams work.”

“Not always,” John agreed. “But if you think about something, your subconscious is more likely to drag it back up again, too.”

“So it is,” Sherlock conceded. “It still wasn’t your fault.”

He blinked again and finally realised he was still holding John’s wrists in a firm grip. “Sorry about that,” he muttered as he let go.

John shrugged. “It’s fine. Not the worst I’ve ever had. And it’s good to know your reflexes are that sharp.”

“Years of bad habits,” Sherlock said. “And I’m not used to having anyone else in my bed.”

“Hmm, it was going to happen sooner or later,” John agreed, rubbing his knuckles. “Ah well.”

“I’ll endeavour to remember your presence next time,” Sherlock said.

John snorted. “What, you’re going to programme your subconsciousness? You do realise it’s called subconsciousness for a reason, right?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Worth a try. Either way, it will not happen again.”

“I didn’t mind,” John told him again. “Do I want to know what you were dreaming about?”

Sherlock shook his head. “No.”

“All right, then.”

They stared at each other. After a while, John became aware that Sherlock was still hovering above him, one of his legs pressing both of John’s down onto the mattress, one hand propping himself up next to John’s shoulder.

He was close, sleep-rumpled and very warm. John found his fingers itching to reach out for a reason he couldn’t quite explain or justify.

Sherlock seemed to read the sudden uncertainty on his face and, as if only now becoming aware of his position, flushed a little and promptly moved off John to lie on his own side of the bed again. “Sorry.”

“That’s more apologies in five minutes than I’ve heard from you in five months in a row,” John said. “Do try and relax.”

Sherlock made a visible effort but John could still see the pulse beating in his throat, too fast to be anything close to calm. The nightmare must have really shaken him up.

After another minute or so, Sherlock dragged himself out of bed. “I’m going to have a shower,” he announced. “And possibly breakfast.”

John blinked. Sherlock wanted food? Perhaps the world was about to end and no one had informed him. “Uh... all right. Anything in particular you’d like?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Eggs?”

John grinned. “Eggs it is,” he confirmed, nodding, and got out of bed himself. “Go have that shower and I’ll whip something up.”

He winced at his choice of words. “Sorry. I’ll ... see what I can make.”

“It’s fine,” Sherlock said.

John shuffled into the kitchen, rummaged in the fridge for some eggs, didn’t find any and had to go down to Mrs Hudson to borrow some. He made a mental note to go grocery shopping later.

By the time Sherlock stepped into the kitchen, dressed in his usual trousers and shirt and towelling his hair, the eggs were sizzling in the pan and John was just popping four slices of bread into the toaster.

“Didn’t know if you wanted fried or scrambled,” he said conversationally, “but scrambled is easier to eat on toast.”

“Scrambled is great,” Sherlock muttered, voice muffled by the towel. “Thanks.”

“We need to go shopping,” John said. “We’re running out of food. I had to ask Mrs Hudson for eggs and those are the last slices of bread.”

Sherlock nodded. “Fine. I’ll text Mycroft.”

John snorted and shook his head. “Leave your brother alone. I need to get out of the house for a bit or I’ll go stir-crazy. We’ve been cooped up in here for days, Sherlock.”

He watched as Sherlock considered this. “Fine. But I’m coming with you.”

“You hate grocery shopping.”

“Nevertheless, I’m coming with you,” Sherlock insisted. “We still don’t know who killed Mary. I’m not letting you out of my sight until they are caught and/or their motives are known. In the meantime, you’ll just have to deal with my presence.”

“I don’t know how I could possibly deal with that,” John joked, privately amazed by how little the mention of Mary had stung. “It’ll be a completely new experience, I’m sure.”

Sherlock merely rolled his eyes but couldn’t quite hide the quirk of his lips.

*****

Grocery shopping was just as boring as Sherlock remembered it.

It was made more interesting by John being there and he followed him, one hand in his pocket and the other swiping across his phone screen in an attempt to look preoccupied.

He kept a close eye on John and their surroundings, though. While John was busy examining bananas in the fruit isle, Sherlock had only needed two minutes to hack into the shop’s security system and was now watching himself and John via the CCTV feed so he could check if anyone was following them.

It was early enough for them to have avoided the lunch break crowd and so they ambled through an almost empty shop, meeting only the occasional other shopper. Sherlock subjected them all to a quick deduction but couldn’t find any red flags.

John pushed the cart through the aisles, clearly following a specific mental map, and Sherlock followed along, trying to see if he could puzzle it out on his own.

The shopping cart gradually got filled. John asked his opinion on red or green grapes, threw in a packet of Sherlock’s favourite cheese without having to be reminded (or Sherlock even noticing they had passed it) and filled up the rest of the space with packages of different types of pasta, vegetables (Sherlock made a face, though John mercifully didn’t buy any cucumbers) and several packs of meat. 

“Eggs,” Sherlock contributed as they walked along yet another aisle.

“Yes, thanks,” John said, reaching for a 12 pack of large free-range eggs. “And another for Mrs Hudson.”

“You only borrowed four this morning,” Sherlock said.

John shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. She’ll appreciate it and if we’re lucky, she’ll use the extra eggs for baking and bring up some cake or biscuits.”

Not able to find fault with his reasoning, Sherlock hummed. “Strategic and opportunistic. I like it.”

“Soldier,” John said, as if that should be explanation enough. And it was.

He lingered for quite some time in the wine aisle. “See anything you like?”

Sherlock blinked. “You want wine?”

John shrugged. “I was thinking of making that lasagne you like. We could have a wine with that. Choose something good.”

Nodding, Sherlock inspected the vintages on offer and finally selected a bottle, eyeing the label critically. “That one.”

“All right.” 

The bottle went into the cart and they made their way to the cash register.

Sherlock eyed John out of the corner of his eye as he packed the groceries onto the conveyor belt but couldn’t find any hint of John behaving oddly. Had this morning really not bothered him? Was it possible that John, though clearly horrified by Sherlock’s scars, truly hadn’t minded being physically attacked like that? Was it possible that he hadn’t even noticed the moment when their position had registered with Sherlock and he had had to force himself to keep his breathing even to avoid panting like a lust-stricken teenager?

Apparently not.

Absent-mindedly pushing John aside and swiping his credit card through the reader, Sherlock contemplated the interesting conundrum of John being either utterly oblivious or far too observant for Sherlock’s liking. He couldn’t even decide if he was relieved about John’s continued obliviousness or not, which was why he had fled to the bathroom before his body had time to develop a truly embarrassing response that would definitely have tipped John off.

“You didn’t have to do that,” John told him, smiling.

“Of course I did,” Sherlock said, mind still stuck on this morning. “I didn’t want you to feel awkward.”

John blinked. “About paying for groceries? I’m not loaded but I could have just about managed that.”

Sherlock shook his head and mentally shifted gears. “Sorry, I was distracted. No, I’m sure you would have but I seem to recall you always sorting out the bills. The least I can do is to pay for the groceries once in a while.”

That seemed to pass muster as an explanation and John grinned. “Well, in that case, you can also help carry them.”

He shoved the handles of two shopping bags into Sherlock’s hands and marched ahead, carrying the rest of the groceries himself. Sherlock took a moment to collect himself, then followed John out onto the street, surprised to find himself smiling.

*****

They put the groceries away together before getting comfortable in their respective armchairs to read for a while.

Sherlock watched John and couldn’t help but feel pleased. John had been more himself this morning than he had been all week, perhaps even in months. Their easy companionship seemed to be back and John hadn’t even flinched when Sherlock had mentioned Mary’s death earlier as his reason for following him around. Instead, John had smiled for most of their outing, had joked with him and teased him, bullied Sherlock into doing mundane things like carrying groceries and had seemed to be generally and genuinely happy.

Sherlock resolved to take John out again the next day. A walk through Regent’s Park, perhaps. Maybe he could even lure him to Kew Gardens under the pretence of wanting to collect some dirt samples or something similarly believable.

Maybe it would do them both good to get out some more. Being cooped up with nothing to do would get on both their nerves sooner rather than later and Sherlock wanted to avoid any arguments if at all possible. Neither of them was in the right state of mind to risk an argument with the only person they still felt in any way close to. He knew for certain that any argument with John would absolutely shatter him and suspected John wasn’t faring much better.

He contemplated his idea of an outing for a while and googled current special events at Kew Gardens, barely noticing as John stood and began to prepare dinner. How was it possible that so many hours had already passed?

Before long, the lasagne was bubbling in the oven and John called Sherlock over to open and pour the wine. In the early days of their flat share, there had been a memorable occasion when John had been tasked with getting the cork out of a wine bottle and to this day the opening of any sort of wine bottle fell firmly into Sherlock’s tasks. The less said about the reason for that, the better.

He found himself smiling at the memory and deftly uncorked the bottle, pouring two glasses of red wine for them with a bit of a flourish.

“Thanks,” John said, smiling as he accepted his glass. He indicated the timer on the counter. “The lasagne should be ready in a minute.”

“Perfect timing,” Sherlock murmured. “I’m actually feeling a bit peckish.”

John beamed at him. “To a nice dinner, then.”

“To you, John,” Sherlock said and clinked glasses with him. 

Their eyes met and held for a moment and something unbearably soft passed across John’s features. Sherlock tried to figure out what it was while also struggling to keep his own feelings hidden away and they stayed locked in the moment, staring at each other. The air seemed to crackle and Sherlock became aware of a sudden tension in the air between them. He remembered this, he realised with a certain amount of wistfulness. This was what it had been like  _before_ .

Something like confusion flared in John’s eyes, as if he too realised this was familiar but couldn’t put his finger on it. Sherlock couldn’t make himself look away, caught and feeling himself fall just a little farther, as surely as a log down a waterfall.

The timer went off with a shrill ringing and they both jumped, almost spilling their wine.

“Sorry, I forgot how loud this thing is,” John said, hastily putting down his glass and shutting the timer off. He peered into the oven. “Well, the lasagne looks about ready.”

Sherlock noticed that the table had already been set, so he took John’s glass off the counter and placed it by his plate before taking a seat. Experience had taught him that it was a good idea to get out of John’s way when he was getting something out of the oven. He didn’t like anyone getting underfoot while he was handling hot items, particularly if they contained food.

John set the steaming lasagne dish on the coasters in the middle of the table and took his seat opposite Sherlock. “Dig in.”

Sherlock did, giving an appreciative moan as the first bite unfolded its flavour on his tongue. “Perfect.”

John smiled. “Thank you.”

They ate in silence for a bit but after a while, Sherlock put aside his fork and took a sip of his wine.

“I’ve been thinking,” he began and John looked up expectantly. “Yes?”

“I’d like to go to Kew Gardens tomorrow, if the weather holds,” Sherlock said. “I’d like to collect some samples and I heard their massive Titan Arum is in bloom.”

“The what?” John asked, laughing.

“That massive plant that apparently smells of a thousand rotting corpses,” Sherlock told him. “Haven’t you heard of it? I’ve never smelled it but I heard it’s perfectly disgusting.”

“And you want samples of that, too, do you?” John laughed.

Sherlock shuddered. “God, no. They wouldn’t let me get close enough to collect any, I would assume. But I’d like to see it all the same. You and I know what a rotting corpse smells like, I’m sure we will be able to tell if the description is accurate.”

That made John laugh even harder. “So instead of taking me to see some beautiful flowers, like a normal person might do, you’re instead dragging me there to collect some dirt and plant samples and to smell the world’s worst-smelling flower?”

Sherlock grinned at him. “Precisely.”

John nodded. “I love it. Let’s do it.”

And just like that, it was decided.


	11. Chapter 11

The weather did hold and so the next day found them taking two tubes to Richmond to visit the Kew Gardens.

It was so warm that they both had opted to leave their jackets at home. Sherlock brought a messenger bag filled with a small shovel, clippers, a sharpie and a collection of plastic bags with empty labels already stuck to them for his samples, and several pairs of single-use gloves.

“You’re going all out, aren’t you?” John asked, smiling. He was sporting sunglasses and a new pair of jeans that took up an alarming amount of Sherlock’s brain capacity and he looked even more relaxed than he had the night before.

They had both slept perfectly fine for once, without any dreams or deep emotional conversations to disturb them. And now here they were, in Kew Gardens in the middle of August. It was hot by British standards and even by the standards of many of the tourists from all over the world traipsing along the winding paths.

Sherlock scowled at them but couldn’t pay them any more attention. This was because just when he paused to inspect a smudged footprint out of habit, John ambled past him in his jeans and Sherlock just happened to glance up, caught sight of John’s backside, and promptly forgot that other people existed. That probably explained why he walked right into two Spanish tourists in his haste to catch up with John.

He shoved his shirtsleeves up to his elbows, wishing his skin wasn’t quite so pale. John had made him put on sunscreen before they left, which probably hadn’t been a bad idea, but Sherlock knew he was more likely to get a sunburn than a tan. No doubt John would end up with a nice golden tan in no time at all, just like the long since faded one his skin had shown that fateful day in the lab. Sherlock remembered those first days very well indeed and wished, with the wisdom of hindsight, he had said something different during their first dinner at Angelo’s.

“Coming?” John asked, turning around to smile at him and Sherlock realised he had once again stopped walking.

‘ _In my pants like a bloody teenager if you go on looking like this’_ Sherlock thought miserably and just barely managed to restrain himself to a clipped “Yes”.

It wasn’t fair that John could look like this and be so completely unaware of the effect he was having on Sherlock. Hell, he hadn’t shaved in two days and his stubble was rather prominent by now. By all means, it should have made him look unkempt. Instead, it was so distracting that Sherlock had already come up with and subsequently discarded fourteen different scenarios that would allow him to feel it on his skin.

Oblivious to Sherlock's increasing lack of a thought process, John walked on and left him with no choice but to follow.

They tried to keep under the trees where possible as they followed the winding paths to the hot houses.

“Which one is it in?,” John asked.

“The largest, I believe,” Sherlock said, smirking. “An attraction like this, of course they’d want to display it front and centre.”

John snorted. “Because so many people like to enjoy the stink?”

“Naturally,” Sherlock confirmed loftily. “Come on.”

The hot house did its name justice. A massive building made of glass and beautifully wrought iron and steel, it was filled to the brim with plants of all kinds, creating a lush jungle so far from the equator. The air was stifling and extremely humid, as could be expected, and the smell of thousands of plants and flowers hung in the air, thick and sweet.

“God, I thought it was hot outside, but this is like a sauna,” John gasped. Sweat was forming on his forehead already.

Sherlock merely nodded - his light blue cotton shirt was already sticking to his skin and he suddenly found himself wishing for a pair of shorts - not a thought he had ever entertained previously.

They followed the signs leading visitors on a convoluted route through the greenhouse. There were different sections to it so you could admire plants in slightly different environments before stepping through yet another set of doors and finding yourself awed by the main area of the hot house.

John certainly was, going by his soft “Oh” as they entered. Even Sherlock couldn’t pretend to be unmoved by the sight. He had been to Kew Gardens many times before to collect samples or do other kinds of research, but the large glass pavilion had been closed to the public for some time recently as it was fully refurbished.

Now, new window panes gleamed in the light and the plants were being displayed in what looked like a palace made of glass. The air was a bit cooler here, too, in the lower twenties, to accommodate the flowers growing here.

“They really went all out, didn’t they?” John murmured. “It looks fantastic.”

“It’s certainly a lot better than it used to be,” Sherlock agreed, ducking under a low-hanging palm leaf.

It wasn’t difficult to find the rotten corpse flower, seeing as it was over three meters tall and smelled just as bad as they had been led to expect.

“A miracle of nature,” Sherlock gasped past his arm which he had instinctively raised to his face as the miserable rotten scent assaulted his nose.

John looked at him, eyes tearing up from the smell. “Yeah, I don’t care about your experiments. We’re definitely not getting a sample of that in our flat. I think even Mrs Hudson would draw the line here.”

“Agreed.” Nonetheless, Sherlock made himself stay still for a little longer, taking in the massive plant and marvelling at the scent. Would something like this be enough to throw off a search dog? Would a corpse dog know the difference between this and a dead body? Dogs had much finer noses than people but this scent was so overwhelming, Sherlock honestly couldn’t judge. He supposed he could have run an experiment on one of Scotland Yard’s corpse dogs but John had already vetoed any attempt to collect samples and the idea of carrying this scent around with him made Sherlock’s hair stand on end - and not in a good way.

“Seen enough?” John asked and Sherlock realised he had been staring at the flower for several long minutes.

“Yes. Let’s get out into the fresh air.”

They both breathed a sigh of relief once they had put some distance between themselves and the flower and slowed their steps a little to look at the other plants. Sherlock collected some dirt samples from the flowerbeds while no one was looking and John paused to sniff other flowers, presumably to get the cloying scent of rot out of his nose.

He turned his attention back to an interesting plant he hadn’t seen before when John called his name, sounding amused.

Sherlock had never been able to resist that tone of voice, so he turned and found John several feet behind him, standing under a low-hanging bunch of vines that were dripping with tiny blue flowers. They hung around his head like the world’s oddest wig.

“Look!” John said, as if Sherlock wasn’t looking already. “I’m wearing a flower crown!”

*****

John didn’t care if he sounded childish. He was sweating like crazy, there were sweet-smelling flowers all around him and he felt like a hobbit.

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply to him but seemed unable to find the words and instead an expression of unbearable softness crossed his face. The adoration in his gaze left John momentarily breathless.

Sherlock blinked and the expression was replaced with one of fond amusement. “More like a flower wig but I take your point.”

“Come here,” John found himself saying. “I want to know what you look like in one.”

And for some reason he wasn’t surprised at all when Sherlock complied, ducking under the canopy of flowers. John stepped back to give him room and suddenly the two of them were behind the flowery curtain in a tiny, dim corner between the drooping flowers and the tree in the flowerbed they originated from.

They were very close all of a sudden, Sherlock looming above him with an expression of surprise and something else on his face that disappeared as quickly as it had come.

John found himself suddenly, desperately, wanting to reach out and touch him, just to make sure he was real.

They stared at each other, speechless. The tension John had noticed last night as they clinked glasses was back, too, making the air seem to sizzle between them.

*****

Sherlock had never wanted to kiss anyone so badly in all his life and it wasn’t helped by the knowledge that he couldn’t.

John looked up at him, wide-eyed and surprised, clearly aware of the sudden tension in the air between them. He didn’t look angry about it, either, which was destabilising to Sherlock’s thought processes.

‘ _You can’t, you can’t, you can’t,’_ he reminded himself desperately. _‘It’s been less than a week. And he doesn’t want you, not like that.’_

He needed to diffuse the situation, and quickly, so he blurted out the first thing that came to his mind: “You need to come out.”

John blinked. “Pardon?”

Sherlock ran his statement through his head again, filtered it through the moment they had just had, and elaborated: “Out of this dark niche if you want to see me with this ridiculous flower wig.”

“Oh.” John laughed. “Sorry, I sort of automatically backed up. Right.”

Sherlock managed not to forget how to breathe as John brushed past him and waited until John was several steps away before letting out a quiet sigh. That had been dangerously close. His muscles were still tense from his struggle to not sway forward and kiss John senseless right then and there.

He took a moment to compose himself, then turned and stuck his head out beneath the flowers. “Happy?”

John looked at him with a soft, fond expression that made the flowers tickling his neck absolutely worth it. “Perfect.”

Of course he insisted on taking a couple of pictures and then rejoined Sherlock for a selfie, which had to be the most ridiculous thing Sherlock had ever participated in. Still, the result pleased John and they were both grinning like madmen in the photograph, so Sherlock chose to let it slide. Anything that made John happy had his stamp of approval.

“Come on, I want to check out the ferns,” John said. “They had one species up in the Royal Botanic Gardens of Edinburgh that was so soft, you could have mistaken it for a child’s toy.”

Sherlock waited for a wince or any other reaction on John’s part to the casual mention of children so soon after the idea of having any had been ripped away from him twice over, but there was nothing. He breathed out. “It’s been a while since I’ve been to Edinburgh,” he volunteered. “I must have missed that one.”

“Perhaps we should go there sometime soon,” John suggested. “Next month or so. A little holiday would be nice.”

Sherlock tried, he really tried, but his heart still lurched in his chest.

John was proposing a holiday together. His wife - well, bride - had died less than a full week ago and John wanted to take Sherlock away to Edinburgh on a holiday. Just the two of them, and the Royal Botanic Gardens.

He thought the skin of his right hand was going to burn right off with the need to grasp John’s hand and not let go.

“I ... that ... yes,” he stammered. “Let’s do that.”

John smiled. “All right, then.”

And just like that, he continued walking, heading towards the ferns to find the one he had been talking about. Sherlock followed him and wondered how it was possible that the heavens themselves hadn’t opened up to scream about his feelings to John. Surely the man couldn’t be _that_ oblivious. He must know what he was doing to him, right?

*****

John watched Sherlock bend over a fern, examining the delicate fibres that grew from it like thick brown fur on an animal’s skin.

The intense humidity was wreaking havoc on his friend’s hair, the once carefully tamed strands now a veritable riot of messy curls that made John’s fingers itch to touch. Sherlock seemed utterly oblivious to both the state of his hair and John’s reaction to it, which was probably for the best.

In fact, Sherlock had been rather absent-minded for most of their trip so far.

John couldn’t quite put his finger on why but it had grown even more pronounced since that little moment under the flower canopy, when he had looked up into Sherlock’s face and been almost overcome with the need to pull him closer. There had been something in the way Sherlock had looked at him but the light had been so dim and John couldn’t be sure he really had seen what he thought he had seen, and so all he was left with was the memory of Sherlock staring at him before that, the almost unbearable adoration on his face, as if he couldn’t believe John was real and part of his life.

It occurred to John that, despite all the upheaval to their lives, Sherlock appeared happier and more relaxed than he had in months. It was hardly surprising, really. If all had gone according to plan, John would be on his honeymoon now and Sherlock would be... well, doing whatever he did when he was alone at home, presumably.

Instead, they had been almost exclusively in each other’s company, trying to sort through the mess Mary and her death had caused.

John nodded to himself. Sherlock had gone from the expectation of no John to having John around 24/7. It was hardly surprising that he was, well, happy about it, even if the reason for the change in plans was anything but nice. But people could feel more than one emotion at a time, as John knew only too well. And if he was entirely honest to himself, he was glad to be here with Sherlock, too.

Even now, despite everything that had happened between and to them, Sherlock was still John’s favourite person to be around in the whole world. He supposed that should have told him something about the advisability of getting married. And as much as he hated the thought and felt ashamed for even thinking it, it was almost a relief that Mary had been killed before he had married her. The very idea of it made him shudder. Married to a complete stranger, a compulsive liar and, apparently, also a cheat. No, he couldn’t say he regretted this at all. He wished there had been a way that didn’t include Mary’s untimely death, but these were the cards he had been dealt and he would make the best of what he had gotten.

And, apparently, what he had gotten was Sherlock. He just didn’t know how much of him.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all, apologies for the delay - I spent the weekend moving house and was busy setting up furniture all evening yesterday. I hope you enjoy this latest offering!

Sherlock kept a weary eye on John when he didn’t notice he was doing it, but John seemed perfectly unmoved, as if the entire episode in the greenhouse hadn’t happened at all. They took a cab home as Sherlock absolutely refused to suffer the tube again. He had nicked one of Mycroft’s many credit cards and wasn’t going to waste any of their own hard-earned money when his brother had a ridiculous budget to work with. In fact, Sherlock was reasonably sure Mycroft had extra money set aside for “expenses incurred by little brother”.

The cab ride passed mostly in silence, though John did mutter a soft “thank god” when he got in and realised there was air conditioning.

Sherlock felt similarly relieved. They had walked around for hours, looking at plants and laughing about the more outlandish names. John had made a point of texting pictures of particularly rude cacti to Harry. Sherlock had done the same to Mycroft, which had made John laugh.

Now, his messenger bag full of precisely labelled dirt and fibre samples, Sherlock relaxed into his seat and watched the city pass them by.

The promise of a trip to Edinburgh seemed intensely tempting, if only to get out of this unbearable heat.

He would wait a couple of days, see if there were any developments in Mary’s case, and then cautiously ask John if perhaps he would like to pull their trip forward a little. If he still wanted to do it at all, that was. Perhaps by the time they were back in the familiar surroundings of 221b, John would come to the conclusion that travelling with Sherlock might be a bad idea so soon after the death of his wife. Or at all.

He glanced at John again and found John looking back at him, a fond smile on his face. “Had fun?”

Sherlock blinked. “Quite, yes.”

“Me too,” John said. “It was a good idea to get out of the flat for a bit. I didn’t even realise how close I’d come to cabin fever until you took me out of there for a bit.”

“A change of scenery can be extremely beneficial,” Sherlock noted. “I’m glad it helped and made you feel better.”

“It really did,” John assured him. “It was just what I needed. Thank you. For everything, really. You’ve been ... nothing short of amazing about it all. I honestly don’t know how I would have gotten through any of this without you.”

“It’s only been a couple of days,” Sherlock reminded him (and himself) softly. “I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

“How many other shoes can there possibly be?” John asked. “My wife cheated on me, let another man knock her up, and stole her name from some little kid’s headstone. Who knows who she is and what she’s been up to before that.”

He paused and then said: “What did Mycroft say?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock grumbled. “He claimed he didn’t know. I did tell you, remember?”

“Vaguely,” John murmured. “I was a bit ... not good that day.”

“I know.”

“Thought he might have mentioned anything since then, though.”

Sherlock shook his head. “Not a word. I think his people are still digging. Now that he knows something isn’t right, he will want to do the most thorough background check he can get.”

John nodded. “Fair enough.” He grinned. “I bet if you told him he can’t get it done by next week, we’ll have the report tomorrow.”

Sherlock smirked back. “That might actually be worth a try,” he said, pulling out his phone and sending Mycroft a quick text to enquire about the state of his ‘little research project’, making sure to heavily imply he didn’t think Mycroft was capable of finding his own arse with two hands and a map, let alone any useful information about the woman known as Mary Morstan.

“He should get back to us quite soon,” he commented happily. “Brilliant idea, John, I don’t know why I didn’t think of this sooner.”

“Well, I have been distracting you quite a bit in the last couple of days,” John pointed out.

For a moment, Sherlock feared John meant it in a more specific sense but then his friend continued. “Can’t have been easy. I know you don’t really do sentiment and here I am, hoisting so much of it on you.”

Sherlock snorted. “In case you hadn’t noticed, John, I do in fact ‘do’ sentiment, if I decide a person is worth it. You have more than proven yourself to be so by now, don’t you think?”

John blinked at him. “I guess,” he finally said. “Thank you.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous, John. As if there was ever anything I wouldn’t do for you. A bit of company and an outing to Kew Gardens is hardly anything in comparison to the other things I’ve done that spring to mind.”

He didn’t go into specifics, belatedly realising that almost all of them would not put John in a good mood. His suicide was the best example but planning John’s wedding was equally tricky now and even jumping into a bonfire carried memories of Mary.

Sherlock froze, his breath stopping in his chest. “Oh.”

“What? Sherlock?”

He shook his head. “I just remembered ... do you recall bonfire night?”

“I’m unlikely to ever forget it,” John muttered. “I was almost fried to a crisp.”

“Yes, and someone texted Mary a riddle to help us find you. She came to me for help but when she showed me the text, she told me it was a skip code. She recognised it before I had even had time to look at the words, John.”

“Oh,” John said. “Not many people would just do that ...”

“Linguists, perhaps, or code crackers,” Sherlock said. “But neither of these usually need to change their identity.”

“So... what does that mean, then?” John asked.

Sherlock shrugged. “Could be nothing. But the people who are really good at this sort of stuff are spies. Or former spies, most likely, in her case.”

John shook his head. “A spy. Well, I can’t see it, which probably means it has to be true. She’d have been really crap at it if I had noticed, after all.”

“She fooled me, too,” Sherlock reminded him.

“Yes, she really did,” John said thoughtfully. “How did she manage that?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I suppose it was my own bloody fault. I didn’t deduce her. Just a surface scan, so to speak, the night I came back and first met her. But after that ... I tried not to.”

“You tried not to?” John echoed. “Why?”

They were in dangerous territory here, Sherlock knew, and so he phrased his words carefully. “I felt it was too private. She was yours and I didn’t want to find out things I had no right to know. I thought such an intrusion into your privacy would not be welcome. And you were already so angry with me, I did not wish to antagonise you further.”

A couple of minutes passed in silence. Then, to Sherlock’s surprise, John reached out, grabbed his hand and squeezed it. “Thank you.”

He shook his head. “Don’t thank me for that. If I had not been selfish, I might have seen something was off about her. I might have been able to warn you and prevent all this from happening.”

John snorted. “No. You’re right - I was furious with you. If you had somehow found fault with her, I would not have believed you on the simple principle that I was angry and she was mine, as you said, and I didn’t want you to come and ruin that one good thing left in my life, too.”

Sherlock couldn’t quite suppress a flinch at these words. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” John said, squeezing his hand again. “I know better now. After all that you have done for me ... but back then, I didn’t know what I know now. I wouldn’t have wanted to hear a word of it, no matter how true it was.”

“Oi, lovebirds!” their cabbie called. “We’re here.”

Sherlock felt his cheeks heat, slid his hand out from under John’s and quickly swiped Mycroft’s credit card through the reader before hopping out of the car, hoping John would attribute the sudden flush on his face to the heat.

He unlocked the door and barely waited for John to get out of the cab before bounding up the stairs, keeping just enough of an eye on him to ensure John got inside safely. One never knew, after all. If it was possible Mary had been a spy, then who was to say that the man sweeping the pavement across the street wasn’t?

He was two steps from the door to their sitting room when the image of their front door just now flashed across his mind. The knocker had been straight.

He froze for barely a moment before stepping into the flat and heard John jump up the stairs, following only seconds behind.

*****

John followed Sherlock into the house and almost forgot to close the front door behind him. Had Sherlock just blushed at being called a ‘lovebird’ by the cabbie or was that John’s imagination? It couldn’t have been the heat, not in the comfortably cool back of the cab.

After that moment earlier behind the flower canopy in the greenhouse, this warranted some further thought. He had been reluctant to read too much into the situation but in the space of less than twenty-four hours, they had had two incredibly tense moments, Sherlock had admitted to sentiment and had now blushed when a cab driver had confused John’s hand on Sherlock’s for a couple holding hands. Which, admittedly, it had rather looked like.

But Sherlock had never seemed to react to these accusations and implications before.

John decided to give this some further thought before he decided if he should do anything about this potential development. And, more importantly, what.

He noticed Sherlock momentarily freezing two steps from their sitting room door and hurried up, taking the stairs two at a time just in case Sherlock would need backup.

When he walked into the sitting room, Mycroft Holmes was comfortably enthroned on Sherlock’s armchair, twirling a thumb drive between his fingers. His umbrella was leaning against the arm rest, which John found a bit excessive. It was 28 degrees outside and there hadn’t been a cloud in the sky for days. The idea of it raining anytime between now and when Mycroft stepped back into the car that was no doubt waiting for him around the corner was utterly ridiculous.

“That was fast,” John commented. “Sherlock can’t have texted you more than half an hour ago.”

“Oh, did he?” Mycroft asked. “I hadn’t noticed. I can’t always jump just because my brother decides to send me a message.”

John smirked. “Did you like the cacti?”

“I’m certainly glad to see you in such good spirits,” Mycroft replied. “It seems my brother is performing miracles left, right and centre these days. Did you enjoy Kew Gardens?”

John glanced at Sherlock, who was looking at Mycroft with his head tilted to the side like a curious bird, no doubt assembling what promised to be an impressive deduction. John crossed his arms. “I don’t see why I should not enjoy myself. It seems that the woman I was intending to marry didn’t even exist and the woman who claimed to be her was neither trustworthy nor honest. That doesn’t exactly leave me much to mourn, does it?”

Mycroft inclined his head. “A valid point.”

It was all the concession he was going to get, John knew. “I don’t need your approval,” he said.

“No, but you do need my assistance."

John shrugged. “Do I? It seems to me that anything you can do, Sherlock can get done as well, though by different means and perhaps not quite so quickly on account of his not having a bunch of spies at his beck and call.”

Sherlock spoke before Mycroft could respond, drawing both their attention. “You found her,” he said slowly. “You had your people do a thorough search, perhaps even conducted your own. You found a lot. And you are worried about the things you did find. How bad is it?”

Mycroft sighed and held out the thumb drive. Sherlock reached out and took it, wordlessly passing it to John with barely a glance at it.

Surprised, John accepted it and looked down at the sleek black thing. Four letters had been written onto it. “A.G.R..A,” he read. “What’s that?”

“We don’t know yet,” Mycroft admitted. “But all that we do know is on here. Would you like a summary?”

Again, Sherlock looked at John, waiting for his decision.  _‘Your choice’_ his eyes seemed to say, and John was grateful for that.

“Yes,” he said. “Tell us.”

Mycroft nodded. “Very well, then.” He took a breath. “The person you know as Mary Morstan sprang into existence about five years ago, as the Yard has already discovered. My sources indicate that before that she used a number of identities and personalities around the world, frequently for short trips to cities that happened to coincide with the sudden, often unexplained and always unresolved deaths of various people of importance. Business men, CEOs, politicians, high-ranking military members of various countries and at least one foreign Head of State. We don’t have any concise evidence tying her to any of these incidents but the circumstantial evidence we do have is rather compelling.”

“An assassin,” John said hollowly. “My fiancée was an international assassin.”

“That’s what it looks like,” Mycroft confirmed. “It seems she used to work for the CIA and perhaps other secret service agencies before going completely rogue about ten years ago. Anything she did for these other agencies is, of course, strictly confidential and in many cases completely unknown. We can speculate at best and assume at worst.”

Suddenly, Sherlock was beside John, grasping his arm and pushing him towards the sofa. “Sit down, John. This is going to take a while, you know how Mycroft likes to hear himself talk.”

It was a kindness to offer the excuse. They both knew John needed to sit unless he particularly wished to fall over. His legs had begun to shake.

Mycroft cleared his throat once Sherlock had taken a seat next to John, close enough for their shoulders to brush even though there was plenty of space on the sofa. “As I was saying ... we don’t know much of what she did. What I can say for certain is that some three and a half years ago, she was part of a small group of hired gunmen (and, presumably, women) up in the viewing balcony of a public pool here in London. You may remember the evening - it was your first personal encounter with James Moriarty.”

Even Sherlock inhaled sharply at that, his entire body going tense beside John.

John shook his head. “That can’t be right. You’re saying what... that the woman I loved, or at least thought I loved, once pointed a gun at me and was utterly prepared to shoot me if Moriarty gave the go ahead?”

“Quite,” Mycroft agreed.

“And she somehow went from that to ... what... working in a clinic where she just happened to meet me and fall in love with me so deeply she wanted to marry me?” John thought the bitter sarcasm in his voice should by all rights have stripped the wallpaper off the walls. And yet ...

“More or less,” Mycroft said. “The current theory is that she was ordered to get close to you and keep an eye on you, presumably to ensure that your grief over my brother’s death was real and you were not secretly in contact with him.”

John felt sick. “I met here a year after ... that’s a long time for them to get around to sending someone, wouldn’t you think?”

“They probably didn’t believe you were open to the idea of befriending anyone else or beginning a relationship before then,” Mycroft said. “Quite frankly, they were likely becoming desperate to find out if you were simply that good an actor.”

Sherlock snorted softly and John echoed the sound. “Yeah, I’m really not,” he said. “Guess they didn’t figure that one out, eh?”

He frowned. “But Sherlock came back. Shouldn’t that have been enough? Why did she stick around after that? She could have just walked away and we would have never known. Why stay engaged to me? Why be willing to go through this wedding? I doubt she arranged for her own murder just to get out of that.” He hesitated. “She  _is_ really dead, isn’t she? This wasn’t all some elaborate ruse on her part, was it?”

Mycroft shook his head. “No, no, she is dead. I am convinced of it. You cannot perform an autopsy on a living woman, John. She is well and truly gone.”

“Considering her history, or presumed history, there is a whole collection of potential suspects,” Sherlock mused. “Former colleagues, enemies, competitors, people who had a bill to settle with her, people seeking revenge for a loved one...”

“We may never know who is responsible,” Mycroft agreed. “But I am reasonably certain that you are not, nor have you ever been, a target, John.”

Sherlock let out a slow breath next to him, some of the tension seeping from his body. John wondered just how worried his best friend had been about that possibility. They had been holed up in the flat for days, Sherlock had insisted on accompanying him to go grocery shopping and the trip to Kew Gardens had been a spontaneous idea, announced only last night in the privacy of their flat.

“I suppose that’s one good thing,” John said, just as Sherlock demanded: “How certain are you?”

“Quite,” Mycroft assured him. “I’ve had my people keep an eye on you. No one has been following you or paid you any undue attention.”

“Besides you, you mean,” Sherlock muttered and Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him. “Precisely.”

“So we’re back to square one, then,” John said. “My fiancée, whoever she may have been, is dead and no one knows why.”

Mycroft cleared his throat, suddenly looking uncomfortable, which was a rare enough occasion to make John suspicious. “What?”

“We did manage to retrace almost every step she took during the course of your relationship. It appears she didn’t take on any ... freelance work during that time.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” John asked angrily. “Does it somehow make it better if she didn’t kill anyone while she was with me? That doesn’t precisely undo all her previous work, does it? Why tell me that?”

“He’s telling you because being able to trace her means he found her boyfriend,” Sherlock said softly next to him.

Mycroft gave a curt nod. “Just so.” He turned to Sherlock. “I assume you suspect already.”

Sherlock sighed. “So it was him.”

John recalled what Sherlock had said that day they had gotten the results. “Who, David?”

“The affair seems to have started some three months ago,” Mycroft confirmed. “We can’t be sure if it was consensual or if he knew something about her that could be used as leverage. Considering her history, I would think that if he had attempted any blackmailing, she would have made him disappear rather than give in.”

“Great,” John muttered, burying his face in his hands. “I guess I’m supposed to be glad we don’t have another murder to solve, eh?”

“You are entitled to feel however you like about this,” Sherlock told him softly. “Whatever else she was, she was a liar and a cheat and you are allowed to be angry with her for it.”

“Damn right I’m angry!” John exclaimed. “I can’t even grieve her or the life we had properly because it’d be like claiming a rogue assassin’s life was somehow worth grieving for after all that she has done. At least when they told me about all of  _your_ alleged crimes, I knew it was all a lie and that they didn’t have a shred of evidence.”

Sherlock flinched at that and John immediately felt bad about his words. It hadn’t been Sherlock’s fault and it was hard to think so when the image of the scars on his back was still fresh in John’s mind.

Mycroft cleared his throat. “I believe DI Lestrade has already sent people to interview the boyfriend. He was at the wedding so he should know about her death already. We shall soon find out if he knew about the child as well, though I doubt it. To the best of my knowledge, Mary did not have any doctor’s appointments or buy any home pregnancy tests. It is quite likely she had no idea herself.”

He stood. “I do not have any further information at this point but I will of course keep you updated as we go along.”

John nodded. “Thanks.”

They waited until they heard the front door had closed behind Mycroft before moving. John slumped further into the sofa with a sigh. “Bloody hell, Mary.”

Sherlock slumped next to him. “I’m sorry, John. I truly did not know any of it. I would have tried to warn you had I done so.”

“I believe you,” John murmured. “You wouldn’t have risked me marrying an assassin without my knowledge. And you know how I feel about betrayal.”

“You’re a soldier,” Sherlock said, laying it out as a fact. “Loyalty is important to you.”

John sighed again. “I sometimes think you’re the only person left in the world whose loyalty I can trust in,” he admitted.

There was a long pause as Sherlock worked through that statement. Finally, he said: “The only way you will ever get rid of me is at gunpoint, John.”

John couldn’t help but smile a little at that, which had apparently been the goal because Sherlock looked pleased. “Come on, I’m starving. Mycroft’s presence always makes me want to stab something with a fork.”

John barked a startled laugh. “I’m not surprised. Let’s feed you then. Lord knows I will be the last person on earth to stop you when you actually want to eat.”

*****

As they lay curled up in bed that night, Sherlock was almost convinced he could hear John thinking about this latest list of revelations about the woman he had intended to marry. It would have been nice to claim he couldn’t imagine what being blindsided like that felt like, but Sherlock rather thought that even the second-hand experience was bad enough. He had fallen for her lies, too. He liked to tell himself it was because he hadn’t actively tried to deduce Mary, but who could say? Perhaps he wouldn’t have known even if he had tried. She had done a superb job at the restaurant in pretending not to know him. He highly doubted she would ever have forgotten the face of a person she had aimed a gun at.

He knew John was still awake as well. His body was too tense and his breathing too uneven for him to be anywhere close to sleep. And yet neither of them moved or made any attempt to extract himself from the almost-embrace they had settled into. Sherlock would rather hack off his own arm than move as much as an inch away and so long as John didn’t object, he would simply stay here and allow himself this small luxury.

“Do you think any of it was real?” John finally asked.

“Any of what?”

“Any of it,” John repeated, which wasn’t very specific. “Every time she laughed at something I said or rolled her eyes or kissed me or ... or accepted my proposal or said she couldn’t wait to marry me.”

He paused, clearly not finished speaking, and Sherlock waited for whatever it was John wanted to say.

Finally, in a small voice, John asked: “Do you ... do you think she loved me at all?”

Sherlock wanted to kill her.

He wanted to travel back in time and pull the trigger himself, wanted to find a way to resurrect the dead and kill her all over again, wanted to burn her down where she stood, along with everything she had ever owned.

_How dare she?_ How dare she make John doubt he had been loved?

“Sherlock?” John asked, sounding a bit startled.

Sherlock blinked and realised he had turned fully onto his side and was clutching John to him with a bit more force than strictly necessary. “Oh, sorry.”

He loosened his grip a fraction. “I don’t know,” he said slowly, trying to drown out the screaming rage in his head. “But I would like to think so.”

John frowned at him in the dim light. “You would?”

“Yes, of course. You deserve nothing less, John. She would have been a fool not to-to love you. She would have been even more of a fool not to appreciate her luck in having you in her life.”

‘ _Careful now’_ a voice in his head whispered and Sherlock tried his best. It wouldn’t do to say the wrong thing now. It wouldn’t do to be stupid, not now, when everything was so fragile.

John sighed. “You really think so?”

“John, a minute ago I was contemplating inventing a cure for death so I could personally kill her all over again for ever making you doubt that.”

That startled a soft chuckle out of him, at least, and his arm snaked around Sherlock’s waist, fingers splaying on his back. “Hmm, I can see that.”

It was Sherlock’s turn to be surprised and he clung to that rather than allowing himself to focus on the sensation of John’s touch. “You can?”

“’course. After all that you endured just to keep a handful of people alive? There isn’t a thing you wouldn’t do for any of us, for me, if you thought it would somehow help.”

Sherlock allowed himself a half-smile. “Quite right.”

“Thank you for that, too,” John said. “I don’t think I ever said that. Thank you for saving me. Thank you for being here with me. Thank you for existing. And thank you for being you.”

His throat felt oddly tight at hearing these words and he ducked his head, hiding his face in the crook of John’s neck. “Always, John.”

It was all he could say for the time being. If he even tried to express that all of it was due to John, that all of it had only been possible because John existed, he would never stop talking and that was the last thing John needed right now. It was Kew Gardens all over again. _‘You can’t, you can’t, you can’t.’_

Had it really only been a couple of hours ago that they had shared this moment under the flower canopy? Had it really only been a couple of hours ago that they took ridiculous photographs of cacti to send to Harry and Mycroft? How was that possible?

Apparently, John had followed his train of thought, as was so astonishingly often the case. “Today was perfect. That trip to Kew Gardens, I mean. We should do that more often.”

“Anytime and anywhere you like, John,” Sherlock promised, judging it safe to draw back a little so they could look at each other in the dimness of his bedroom.

‘ _You can take me anywhere’_ he thought and meant it in every way possible. Another thing he would never say. No matter what Mary had done, the relationship John was still grieving had been so perfect he had wanted to keep it forever. There was no way Sherlock could ever compete with that. He had no illusions about that.

“I really do want to go to Edinburgh,” John told him softly, pulling him back from the brink of despair. “But perhaps we really should wait a while. Lestrade is still neck-deep in this investigation and I think it would look a bit odd if less than a week after the bride’s death, her groom absconds to Scotland with his best friend. People might ask questions.”

Sherlock snorted. “People never do anything else. Don’t worry, John, we’ve both been cleared of any wrongdoing already. It’s not as if the Yard has been barging in here at all hours of the day to ask more questions.”

“Hm, no, those two times were quite enough,” John agreed. “Still.”

“We’ll wait, then,” Sherlock said. “We can go next month. It’ll give us time to plan a proper trip. I haven’t been to the Highlands in ages, either - perhaps we can hire a car in the city and go hiking.”

“You hike?” John asked, surprised.

“I like a good walk as much as the next person,” Sherlock said. “And there’s always interesting flora and fauna to see.”

“Like other hikers and their dogs?” John asked, smiling.

“What?”

John grinned. “Don’t pretend with me. Every time someone with a dog larger than a footstool passes us, you stare at it until it’s out of sight. I’m not you but I can just about deduce that much.”

Sherlock found himself smiling. “Is that so? Perhaps I should let you solve our next case all on your own.”

“You know, you could just admit you like dogs,” John needled.

Sherlock laughed. “Fine. I like dogs.”

“I’m not surprised,” John said.

“No?”

“No. Dogs fit you. They can focus on something other people deem insignificant for a really long time with perfect enjoyment, they like chasing things and they are fiercely loyal to and protective of the people they consider part of their pack.”

Sherlock couldn’t help the soft smile that spread across his face. “They rather are, aren’t they?”

“And,” John continued, “of course sometimes they can be rather ridiculously funny, mostly unintentionally so.”

“Oi!”

John started to giggle and all of Sherlock’s fake outrage evaporated like mist in the morning sun. He started to chuckle as well.

After a while, John sobered up and said mock seriously: “So that leaves only one question - probably the most important one of all.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. “Oh?”

John grinned. “Do you also like to be petted?”

Sherlock found himself instantly turning serious as the question hit rather too close to home. “I don’t know,” he said softly. “I suppose like with many of the more discerning dogs, it depends largely on the person doing the petting.”

They stared at each other in the dark and there it was again, that crackling tension in the air that made Sherlock want to forget himself and do stupid things, damn the consequences.

It took all his self-control to keep his voice nonchalant and body relaxed. “In any case, I haven’t complained yet, have I? Do stop worrying about irrelevant things, John. You’ll get wrinkles.”

“What, on top of the ones I already have?” John laughed and Sherlock felt a swift rush of relief, tinged with disappointment. The moment was well and truly broken.

“Hardly more than a few lines,” he lied.

“You’re shameless,” John said, laughing. “If the most observant man in the world can’t tell how many lines I’ve got on my face already, I must assume he hasn’t ever looked at me.”

“Naturally not,” Sherlock replied, smirking. “Haven’t you noticed? I never actually looked at you. Why would I ever look at anyone I live with? Really, John, do be realistic.”

“You’re overdoing the sarcasm a bit,” John told him, smiling.

“Was I? I couldn’t tell.”

“Idiot,” John said fondly.

“Only ever for you, John,” Sherlock promised him. “Only ever for you.”


	13. Chapter 13

John didn’t know how long he had been awake. He did know, however, that he had been staring at Sherlock for all of it.

He was asleep, mouth half open and features slack. His entire body was relaxed for once.

John didn’t think he had ever seen Sherlock sleep for longer than a minute or two at a time. Usually, he felt it when he was being stared at and woke up. Not so this time, and John took full advantage, staring unabashedly.

Almost a week after his wedding and he was at 221b, in bed with Sherlock Holmes.

‘ _And I almost kissed him, too’_ John marvelled, staring at that Cupid’s bow and wondering how Sherlock managed to walk through life without constantly being accosted by people begging to kiss him.

It was crazy. If his life had gone the way it had been supposed to go, he would be married and on his honeymoon right now, with his wife. Instead he was still a bachelor, his wife-to-be was a) dead and b) an assassin and he was _in bed with Sherlock Holmes_. He couldn’t get over that fact. He had almost snogged the man in Kew Gardens, like a hormonal teenager who just couldn’t exercise any self-control whatsoever.

Then again, he dared anyone, hormonal teenagers included, to resist Sherlock when he was looking at them the way he had been looking at John today.

But did Sherlock want to be kissed? John wasn’t sure. Perhaps that made him an idiot but there were too many things he couldn’t be sure of.

And even if, against all the odds, Sherlock did ... it would still be too soon.

Mary hadn’t even been dead a week and while John felt reasonably certain that he was done mourning a lie, it would still be too soon for a wide number of reasons, not least of all that it wasn’t fair to Sherlock.

John remembered with startling clarity his first night here in this bed, when his stupid brain and mouth had run away with him and, lost in shock and grief, he had said this was supposed to be his wedding night. And Sherlock, tense as a live wire next to him, pulse noticeably fluttering in his wrist, had offered, in not so many words...

John shook his head as his mouth went dry. He also vividly remembered Sherlock relaxing once he had hastily assured him that, no, he did not want or expect anything, that it had merely been an observation of a fact.

Staring down at Sherlock’s sleeping form, it suddenly occurred to John that Sherlock had indeed been entirely serious when he had said “Anything”. He had meant it in every way possible and he had offered ... been willing to let John ... use him like that. An ordinary person wouldn’t even have considered making such an offer and it had to mean so much more coming from someone like Sherlock, who had never before so much as hinted...

No, this had to be observed carefully. They both needed to be absolutely certain that this wasn’t some bizarre sort of rebound. They deserved better than that, both of them.

And in the meantime, John would keep an eye on this situation and try his best not to let any of those electrifying moments pop up again. There was a limit to his self-control and he had no wish to test it on someone as important as Sherlock. If he ended up doing this, he was going to do it right.

*****

Something had shifted between them yet again. Sherlock knew it the moment he stepped into the kitchen and found John already having breakfast and vaguely gesturing for him to help himself to some of the remaining eggs. Fried, this time, with crispy bacon slices. There was a basket of still-warm pieces of toast on the table.

He sat down and John raised his head to wish him a good morning and Sherlock knew something had changed.

He couldn’t put his finger on what it was or how he knew. It was just there and he wondered how much John knew or suspected. Two incredibly close encounters in twelve hours had clearly been more than enough to tip him off. He still didn’t seem angry and equally clearly wasn’t preparing to start throwing around accusations or - worse - feeble excuses. Instead, John simply had breakfast.

Sherlock watched him warily but when nothing continued to happen, he finally allowed himself to start eating. They would have to have this conversation eventually and he wasn’t looking forward to it. Every single moment had diffused into nothing, had left him reeling and uncertain while John acted as though nothing had happened at all. And if that was the way he was going to deal with this, by pretending ignorance, then that in itself was a sufficiently clear answer.

Sherlock felt his mood deteriorate. He had thought he might be making progress but perhaps he had actually taken a giant leap backward.

He put his fork down. The eggs tasted like ash in his mouth.

“Everything all right?” John asked mildly as he pushed his plate aside.

“Not hungry,” Sherlock said. “I’ve been eating too much recently, that can’t be good for me.”

“Ordinary people have three meals a day and seem to do fine,” John reminded him.

For some reason, this irked Sherlock, his nerves already fraying. “I’m not ordinary, John. Don’t try and hold me to some arbitrary standard of what is and isn’t _‘normal’_.”

‘ _Retreat, retreat, retreat!’_ his mind screamed. He stood, chair squeaking across the linoleum of their kitchen floor. “I need to go to the lab.”

He fled to his bedroom, got dressed and barely remembered to grab his phone before rushing past a startled John and out of the flat.

Too much. It was all too much and he needed a break, needed to get away from John for a bit so he could regroup, regain his footing and decide what to do next.

John would be fine - Mycroft had people watching the flat 24/7 and Sherlock didn’t even care what his brother made of his flight. Mycroft wasn’t an idiot, he would figure it out if he hadn’t already.

Sherlock hailed a cab, gave the driver the address to Barts and stared sightlessly out of the window until the cab came to a stop outside the hospital.

It occurred to him that this had been a good idea the moment he stepped into the lab and found Molly there, recalibrating a centrifuge.

She turned when he entered and simply stared at him for a long moment before slowly putting down her equipment, taking off her gloves and walking over to him to pull him into a bone-crushing hug, all without saying a word.

He blinked, caught off-guard, and hugged her back, realising even as he did it how much he had needed that simple comfort.

“How is he?” Molly asked softly, once she had stepped back. “And how are you?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I ... don’t know.”

She nodded. “These things take time, I suppose. It was such a shock when it happened. Have the police found out anything yet?”

“They found plenty,” Sherlock said darkly. He frowned at her. “Did no one tell you?”

“Tell me what? Come, let’s sit and you can fill me in on what happened. I haven’t heard anything since I gave my statement.”

She made them both tea in the morgue's small staff kitchen and within minutes he found himself sitting opposite her, telling her everything they had learnt about Mary in the intervening time.

Molly was a good audience. She didn’t ask stupid questions and gasped in all the right places.

“...and he even doubts she ever cared about him,” Sherlock finished, not managing to bring himself to say the word ‘love’ for fear of what Molly might read on his face if he did.

She shook her head sadly. “Oh John. All of this must have been such a shock.”

“I don’t know what to do,” Sherlock confessed. “He’s been ... almost normal, during the day. He hasn’t had any nightmares for a couple of nights, either.”

Molly looked at him sharply. “And you know this because...?”

Sherlock averted his gaze and found himself studying the scratched surface of the table. “...he’s been sleeping in my bed,” he muttered, barely audible.

There was a long moment’s silence. He glanced up. Molly was gaping at him. “And you didn’t think to mention that?”

He shrugged and chose to tell a barefaced lie. “I didn’t think it was important.”

Molly gave him a _look_. The days where he had been able to fool her were long gone. “So, how do we feel about that?”

Sherlock shrugged again. “It’s not like that. He just ... he needs someone there, someone alive. He’s been holding on to my wrist even in his sleep, feeling my pulse. It seemed to help a little.”

“That’s ... oh, Sherlock.” She shook her head, her eyes wide and sympathetic.

He frowned. “What?”

“You’ve been in love with him almost from the moment he first walked through that door,” she said, gesturing behind herself. “I may not have wanted to see it back then, but deep down I always knew. And now instead of getting married and being gone, he’s back at 221b and sleeping in your bed. You can’t claim that doesn’t affect you in some way.”

“It does,” Sherlock admitted. “Not that I have any business being relieved. I never wanted her to die. I never wanted anything at all to happen to her. I thought it would devastate him. And now something has happened and she is dead and he is ...” He trailed off and waved his hand vaguely, unable to express what it was that John was at the moment.

Molly nodded. “Well, you had better talk to him, don’t you think?”

“And say what? _Hey John, you know I’m ... I’m head over heels for you and I’m really glad your wife is dead and also, would you mind terribly if I kissed you senseless?_ Give it a couple of days and I’ll accidentally do that without any grand speech.”

Eyebrows raised, Molly leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. “Do you know that’s the first time you ever admitted it out loud?”

He blinked. Was it? It might very well be. He had never actively told anyone, had he? His best man's speech had never seen the light of day, and thank god for small mercies. He had burned it the very day of the wedding, terrified that John might accidentally find it and learn too much.

“Why do you think you’d kiss him by accident?” Molly asked.

Sherlock stared at the table, at the wall, at both of their mugs, and finally accidentally met her gaze and blurted: “I almost did it yesterday. And last night.”

Molly blinked. “What happened?”

Sherlock sighed. “I thought John could do with a bit of fresh air. We both could, truth be told. I figured he might enjoy leaving the city for a couple of hours and I could get some samples at the same time, so I suggested we go to Kew Gardens...”

He found the picture he had snapped of John under the flowers, in the half-second before several important parts of his brain had simply melted.

“... and he wanted to get one of me as well, for whatever reason. Probably because it was funny. And suddenly we were all alone behind these flowers and he was so close and I had a hard time remembering that Mary had died only a couple of days ago and that I couldn’t ... and he just ...” He shook his head and gave up.

“And then Mycroft was waiting for us at home with all his revelations about Mary and that night John asked if I thought she had ever really l-loved him, and I told him she’d have been an idiot not to.”

He buried his face in his hands. “It’s all gone arse over tits, Molly. It was the most bizarre conversation we’ve ever had. He noted I was a bit like a dog and asked if I too liked being petted. Who... who does that? What sort of question is that? And all the tension from the afternoon sprang right back up and I almost kissed him right there. And he’s been different today. Not explicitly and he hasn’t said anything, but I can feel the change in the air and he keeps acting as if everything is normal, like nothing happened at all.”

He looked up at her. “I think that’s clear enough already, don’t you? I wasn’t exactly circumspect. I basically told him it was just him for me. And now he has decided to just ignore the elephant in the room. He can’t possibly be clueless, not after all that. So I have to assume my feelings aren’t welcome and he has decided to simply not say anything to avoid things getting awkward.”

She rolled her eyes. “And that is why you’re here?”

“... yes.”

Molly sighed. “You’re an idiot. You are both idiots.”

She got up to make a fresh cup of tea and Sherlock distinctly heard her mutter “Men!” under her breath. Judging by the rough way she handled the kettle, he had made her angry somehow.

After a not entirely uncomfortable silence, the kettle flicked off and Molly returned to the table, pouring fresh tea for them both.

“So basically you almost kissed - twice - and he can’t possibly have missed that fact and now he’s been quiet about it and so you panicked, jumped to conclusions and ran away.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest this assessment but couldn’t quite find anything outright false with it. “I ... broadly speaking, yes.”

Molly rolled her eyes again. “You’re an idiot,” she repeated.

“Molly...” Suddenly, he was exhausted. He needed answers, preferably right now.

Luckily, she took pity on him. “You already said it yourself - it’s too soon,” she told him gently. “The woman he was supposed to marry hasn’t been dead a full week. And even if it has now turned out that she was evil and a general nightmare and he basically had a lucky escape, that doesn’t mean he can just ... jump into this thing with you so soon after she died. Leaving aside the question of whether or not he wants to, there’s still a lot to think about. Anyone who doesn’t know the full story would condemn him and you both, people would speculate that either one or both of you killed her to get her out of the way, the police would ask uncomfortable questions all over again and let’s not even think about what the press would do.”

Sherlock shuddered. He had completely ignored the press so far, which was probably a bit of an oversight because ‘Bride killed at own wedding’ was probably just the thing to fill the summer hole. He could only imagine the media circus once it became clear that the blushing bride had in fact been an internationally wanted assassin.

“And then there is you,” Molly added.

He blinked. “Me? What about me?”

“Well, it’s not exactly fair, is it?” she asked categorically. “His wife died a week ago and suddenly he’s snogging you? That’s a bit of a quick turnaround for anyone, most of all John, who never indicated any interest in men at all. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t be wondering if you were some sort of ... of a rebound shag. Just another body to warm his bed until he’s ready to face the world again.”

The words hit him like a blow. Deep down, he _had_ worried about that. It was why he had been so relieved that first night, when John had hastily shot down his half-hearted offer. The idea of only having John’s body and nothing else made him mildly sick. That wasn’t what he wanted. He’d rather have nothing than suffer through the knowledge that John saw him as nothing more than a convenient shag.

Molly must see some of his pain at the thought on his face because her features softened. “Don’t worry,” she said gently. “He would never do that. So maybe ... give him some time? Give both of you some time. And in a couple of months, when all of this has died down a bit and he has had time to figure out what he wants, perhaps you could have a conversation about it with him. Or, you know, just kiss him and hope for the best.”

Sherlock sighed, some of the lingering tension finally dissipating. “You’re right. Thank you, Molly.”

She smiled. “You’re welcome. Now come on, I’ve got an interesting body you’ll want to see. It’ll give you something to tell him about when you get home.”

*****

Sherlock stayed away for hours and John told himself firmly not to worry. They had been cooped up together for days on end and while their outing yesterday had been nice, it had still involved the two of them sticking to one another. Sherlock was entitled to some alone time. Belatedly, it occurred to John that Sherlock probably hadn’t spent this much time with another human being in several years. Even before his ‘death’ they had not spent every waking moment together and had slept in separate rooms. It was hardly surprising that Sherlock would need some time to himself every once in a while.

John didn’t do too well with prolonged company, either. Sherlock had always been the exception to that but a little break would surely do him good.

He loaded up the washing machine, had a long chat with Mrs Hudson while he waited for the laundry to finish, shoved everything into the dryer and got comfortable in his armchair with a good book. For a moment, he had considered turning on the telly but he knew it was always turned to the news and the last thing he wanted was to stumble upon a report about his own wedding. There were some things he really didn’t want to know.

He read for a while, checked his blog and closed it when he saw the outpouring of support in the comment section of his latest entry, and finally began to tidy the flat a little. God only knew when Sherlock had last hoovered in here, provided he even knew what a hoover was and where Mrs Hudson kept it.

He had just finished with the sitting room when his phone buzzed with a new text message.

Frowning, he picked it up and found a text from an unknown number. He opened it, fully expecting spam.

‘ _Be very careful with my brother, John - MH’_

John blinked down at the message. What was that supposed to mean? Careful how?

His heart sped up. Mycroft knew. Somehow, Mycroft knew. Well, of course he would. Kew Gardens was likely full of cameras. Heaven only knew what it was that Mycroft had seen or thought he had seen.

John tried to see things from Mycroft’s perspective, i.e. through CCTV. They had spent a wonderful day in the Gardens, almost (or, depending on the camera angle, likely) kissed and returned home to Mycroft’s news. Clearly the bloody British Government was well aware of where John spent his nights. And this morning, Sherlock had left the flat in a rush and still hadn’t returned.

Yes, John could see how that might look bad. Eventually, Mycroft would learn that not everything was as bad as it seemed. But he would have to trust John until then and trust was not something the Holmes brothers gave easily.

‘ _I am’_ he simply wrote back, hoping that would be enough. Mycroft wasn’t an idiot, he would figure it out eventually, even if sentiment was a bit of a weak spot of his.

John froze.

“Oh shit.”

Was it possible that Sherlock had misunderstood? Sentiment wasn’t exactly a strength of his, either.

But before John could work himself into a dither, the front door opened and closed and there was Sherlock’s familiar tread bounding up the stairs two at a time.

His cheeks were flushed and hair tousled, his eyes bright. There was a smile on his face. John relaxed.

“Good day?” he asked.

Sherlock beamed at him. “Fantastic, John! Molly showed me the body of some idiot who got himself killed by a lion.”

John blinked. “A what now?”

“A lion, John! Some British explorer or something. They found his body in the savanna and had him sent back home for a thorough examination because the local morgue wasn’t equipped to handle the case and she showed me clear teeth imprints. She promised to make a cast.”

John grinned. “I’m sorry I missed it, then. You seem very excited.”

Sherlock all but threw himself into his armchair, legs bouncing as he tried to restrain his excitement. “I’ve seen dog bites and people who’s face was eaten by their own cat after they died. In one bizarre case, I saw the body of someone who got strangled by his pet python. But I’ve never seen anyone who died by lion.”

“Maybe you can take me with you tomorrow, then,” John said. “I’d like to see that. Might come in handy if I go back to work and a patient walks in with a nasty bite after a visit to the zoo.”

Sherlock laughed, clearly exuberant. “If you say so. I won’t deny you the pleasure.”

“I should hope not,” John told him, raising an eyebrow. “And life would be extremely dull without a bizarre death or two to keep things interesting.”

Sherlock grinned. “Quite so.”

“Tell me about that python,” John said. “I’ll make us some tea.”

Sherlock waved him off. “No tea for me, please. Molly already made me drink three cups.” He made a face. “She wanted a chat.”

“Ah.” John waited.

“I told her about what we learnt in the meantime,” Sherlock said, tone softer now. “She was worried about you and thought you were still ...”

“Grieving?” John suggested.

“Yes. That. And you are, in a way.”

“I am,” John confirmed. “There is an entire life I could have led, a life I’m now never going to have. But it hinges on too many what ifs. What if Mary hadn’t died, what if Mary hadn’t been an assassin? What if the child had been mine? And so on. It’s impossible to believe that all of these what ifs could somehow have worked out differently and still ended up with us getting married. So I’m mourning the life I might have had and the person I thought she was. But I’m not mourning the real thing, if that makes any sense.”

Sherlock nodded, looking thoughtful. “Yes. I suppose that does make a great deal of sense, in fact. I’m glad you’ve made that much progress at least, John.”

He smiled. “Me too. And mourning a potential isn’t going to take half as long as mourning a reality. It’s going to come back at times, these things always do. But I’m not going to fight the better moments when they come. And if I find something else that makes me happy in time, that’ll be just fine, too.”

He didn’t dare go so far as to say ‘someone’, worried that it would either be too obvious or - worse - be misunderstood. For now, this was the best they were going to get. A calm, quiet time to relax and adjust to this new life of theirs, to draw a line underneath everything that had happened in the past and start anew.

“Do you think you could eat something tonight?” John asked. “You haven’t had a proper breakfast and three cups of tea don’t count.”

Sherlock shrugged. “I might as well. What did you have in mind?”

“I was thinking there’s this Chinese place we haven’t been to in a while,” John said. “I feel like watching you fail horribly at predicting fortune cookies.”

That drew a chuckle from his friend. “Fine. It’s been ages.”

It had been. They had gone once after Sherlock’s return, after a case had kept them up late into the night and they had been hungry from chasing down a killer and too high on the post-case rush for John to consider calling it a night and going home. It had been ... lovely. Like old times, actually. He had crashed on the sofa in 221b and Sherlock had made breakfast and Mary had merely rolled her eyes at him when he had come home at 10am the next morning.

John smiled at the memory. It had been a good one. But coming home to 221b in the knowledge that he wasn’t going to leave again was even better.

Which reminded him...

“Hey, can you text your brother?”

“Why?”

“Because he has a lot of cars and a lot of muscular men with nothing useful to do all day, so I figured he might want to help me move my stuff back to 221b. I don’t want to stay in the flat Mary and I had. It’s too far from everything and I don’t want to leave ... that is, if you want me back in here at all.”

Sherlock stared at him. “If I w-...”

He pulled his phone from his pocket and hit speed dial. “Mycroft, John’s moving back in. Get it done.”

He hung up without waiting for a reply.

John gaped at him in open astonishment. “Did you just _call_ your brother?”

“Yes, why?”

“You hate making phone calls. You particularly hate calling Mycroft.”

Sherlock shrugged. “You were starting to talk yourself out of it. I was merely taking precautions.”

John laughed. “I’m not going to leave this place in a hurry, I promise. Well, except to run after you when we’ve got a case on.”

“See that you do,” Sherlock said haughtily.

They grinned at each other as another cornerstone of their mutual life clicked back into place.

*****

They left for the restaurant just as Mycroft’s men showed up with a black van full of John’s things.

“Let’s not get in their way,” John merely said when Sherlock hesitated. “You know where everything belongs, boys. Probably better than I do, actually.”

The men merely nodded and began unloading.

Sherlock followed John down the road and they walked comfortably side by side, the heat of the day finally having made way for some cooler air as the sun slowly set behind London’s high rises and the street lights flickered on.

John breathed deeply and tipped his head back. “God, I missed this.”

“Missed what?”

“Walking around London with you,” John said. “Just ...being. There’s nothing like it. I know you love this city like it’s a part of you and I get that, too, sometimes. When the light is just right and the air is warm and we can just exist in the moment. London can be so beautiful in the most unexpected moments.”

Sherlock smiled. “It really can be. Remind me to take you to my favourite museum soon.”

John turned to look at him. “You’ve got a favourite museum?”

“Mhhh-hmmm,” Sherlock confirmed, nudging him to the door of the restaurant and holding it open for him.

“And you’re going to claim it’s not the Yard’s Black Museum?” John asked. “Because I’m not sure I can believe that.”

“Indeed not,” Sherlock confirmed. “Sometimes even I need a break from murder.”

“And I assume it’s not the British Museum either,” John murmured as they took their seats in a secluded corner. “Too many tourists.”

“Precisely. It’s nice after closing time, though.”

“I don’t even want to know how you know that.”

Sherlock grinned. “I’ll show you soon. Want to guess some more?”

“I think the Natural History museum is high up on the list,” John said. “But it’s a bit too obvious.”

“Correct. I’d go there for the architecture alone,” Sherlock said, sighing. “A truly beautiful building, and yet architects insisted on putting up these ugly concrete blocks in the 70s that ruined the entire city’s aesthetic. I shudder every time I see the Tower Hotel on the north side of Tower Bridge.”

John made a face. “God, that’s ugly. And don’t get me started on the Barbican.”

“I heard they found a bomb from the Second World War there a couple of months ago,” Sherlock said. “I admit I hoped it would blow up and do enough damage to force them to rebuild the entire bloody complex.”

John laughed. “God, me too! It was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

“We can’t have everything,” Sherlock commented. “But we can at least have a solid meal. What do you want?”

They placed their order and John waited impatiently for the waiter to disappear before turning back to their conversation.

“That was a nice distraction but as much as I enjoy bashing London’s questionable architecture, I really want to know about your favourite museum.”

Sherlock gave a long-suffering sigh and relented. “It’s at Holborn, just around the corner from the British Museum. It’s called the John Soane Museum. The name may ring a bell - he was the architect who designed the Bank of England as it stands today.”

John blinked. “That’s a bit out of the left field. I would have expected an architect of a bank to be more Mycroft’s first choice of a museum,” he admitted. “I didn’t even know that guy had one.”

“He does,” Sherlock confirmed. “And it’s not at all to Mycroft’s taste. John Soane was a bit of a madman, actually. He used to travel the world and, uh, bring ‘souvenirs’-” he raised his hands to make air-quotes around the word “- to keep in his home. He was also friends with a lot of painters of his time and thus received some of their artwork. Eventually, he developed agoraphobia, the fear of open spaces, and was forced to remain inside his home. So he bought the houses to the immediate left and right, broke down some walls and built himself a museum of all the things he had accumulated over the years. Half of the house looks like a normal Victorian home, preserved exactly as it was at the time of his death, and the other half looks like the collections of a man unnaturally obsessed with urns and wall decorations made from stucco.”

John laughed. “That sounds quite bizarre actually.”

“And you haven’t heard the good part yet.” Sherlock’s eyes gleamed with delight. “He had so many paintings he couldn’t fit them on the walls, so there is an entire room where you can open the walls and find more walls behind them, with more pictures.”

When the waitress arrived with their food, John was in hysterics. “Oh my god.”

But Sherlock wasn’t done yet. “The British Museum had a sarcophagus shipped all the way from Egypt but couldn’t afford to actually buy it, so Soane bought it instead for 3,000 pounds - an unspeakably huge amount of money at the time - and had it lowered into the cellar through a hole in his ceiling. And then he apparently held a 3-day-long party with all of London's high society to celebrate his purchase.”

“You’re making this up,” John accused him, giggling. “There’s no way he’s got a sarcophagus in his cellar. They weigh tons!”

“I’ll show you tomorrow,” Sherlock promised. “And the employees there can tell you the story themselves, along with some rather amusing analyses of the paintings he does own.”

John grinned. “All right. It’s a date.”

The words simply slipped out without his bidding and he watched as Sherlock very nearly dropped his fork.


	14. Chapter 14

Sherlock did take John to see the museum the next day and they spent an entertaining two hours roaming through the old Victorian building, laughing about the statues and frescoes and trying not to giggle as one of the museum’s volunteers went into great detail about the election process depicted on the paintings.

John’s eyes lit up with near childlike delight when they did in fact open and close various walls to reveal more paintings behind them and Sherlock felt an answering smile tug at his lips. He quietly resolved to make more time for these casual outings. London was full of ridiculous, amusing and downright bizarre places. He wanted to explore them all with John.

And the entire time they spent there, John’s words from last night kept repeating in his head. _‘It’s a date.’_

John had looked surprised as he said it, so clearly it hadn’t been intentional. But did that make it a Freudian slip or had he really not meant it the way it had sounded? They hadn’t mentioned it again all evening and the meal had passed companionably enough as they talked about everything and nothing.

Now that they were here, Sherlock was left feeling unsure all over again. Had it been anyone else or even had their overall situation been different, he would have assumed this was a date and be done with it. It felt like a date. At Kew Gardens, he had at least had the excuse of wanting to collect dirt samples and take a whiff of the world’s most disgusting flower. But this? There was no excuse, no pretext for them to be here. They had simple come here because they wanted to. He and John didn’t usually do that.

All of this said ‘date’.

But they didn’t touch. They talked and joked and laughed but there were no lingering gazes and no pregnant silences. All the tension between them seemed to have dissipated once more, leaving only their usual comfortable companionship behind. Sherlock very nearly resented it.

They returned home in time for a late lunch and settled in for a quiet afternoon.

“That was good,” John said, eyes still alight with happiness. “We should go out more often.”

Sherlock smiled. “We go out all the time, John.”

“I know, I know. But it’s not like this, usually, is it? We usually go out to see either a dead body or to find the person responsible for it - which is fun, don’t get me wrong. But this was nice, too.”

“It was,” Sherlock agreed. “I’m glad you enjoyed yourself.”

“I never even knew that place existed.” John shook his head in disbelief. “That bloody sarcophagus. I was so sure you were fibbing about that.”

Sherlock smirked at him. “You really should know by now not to bet against me.”

“Luckily, I didn’t actually bet,” John replied.

Before Sherlock could come back with a witty retort, the front door opened and there were steps on the stairs. He tensed. “It’s Lestrade.” He’d know that gait anywhere.

The DI entered before John had managed to look more subdued and gave him a quizzical look. “Good to see you smiling, John. Hello you two.”

“Good afternoon,” Sherlock replied. “What brings you here again? Have you found out anything new?”

Lestrade shook his head. “No, uh... not yet. We’re still sifting through a lot of data. Uh ... no, I just wanted to let you know that we’re done with all, uh, physical examinations. We’re releasing the, her ... body.” He looked at John, clearly unsure of his reaction. “So if you want to start organising the funeral...”

Sherlock blinked. He had forgotten. From the look on his face, so had John.

“The funeral,” he echoed. “Right. Yeah. I’ll... yes. Thanks, Greg.”

“Right,” Lestrade muttered. “Sorry to always be the bearer of bad news. Bit of a nightmare, all of this. How are you doing?”

“Fine,” John said. “Sherlock’s been doing his best to keep my spirits up. I’ll ... I’ll get there, eventually. God, it’s only been a week.”

The DI gave Sherlock a stern look which Sherlock returned with a blank expression. Whatever Lestrade thought, he didn’t want to know about it.

“Right,” Lestrade said again. “I’ll be going then. Just wanted to let you know in person. It’s just not the kind of thing you ever feel comfortable saying over the phone.”

“I appreciate you taking the trouble of coming over,” John told him. “Really. Thanks, Greg.”

Lestrade left with one last, lingering look at them. The moment he was gone, Sherlock turned to John, who buried his face in his hands. “Christ.”

Sherlock licked his lips, hesitated, and said: “You know you don’t have to...”

“Course I do,” John said. “As far as the general public knows, my bride got murdered a week ago, Sherlock. The last thing I want is the press being after us again like bloodhounds.”

Sherlock had to concede that one. “Right. You’re right.”

“Not like you to not think of something like that,” John noted.

Sherlock shrugged and looked away. “I just wanted you not to ... have to deal with a funeral, too.”

There was something warm in John’s tone when he replied. “Thank you. Don’t worry about me. Perhaps it will ... help. Burying her, I mean. Give us closure.”

Sherlock wanted to open his mouth to argue that  _he_ didn’t need closure but then he remembered days and weeks of wedding preparations, a countdown ticking away in his head ( _8 days, four hours, 32 minutes until you lose John_ ) and suddenly the idea of some sort of ceremony to put it all behind him didn’t seem so silly.

“All right,” he said instead. “Let’s do it.”

*****

The funeral was held two days later, in a church and cemetery far from the one John had once buried Sherlock in. He hadn’t even considered using the same place - it had seemed like blasphemy.

The weather continued to be stupidly hot and sunny and the guests - the majority of whom had been in attendance at the wedding that wasn’t - were sweating in their black clothes.

John sat in the front bench, as was to be expected, with Sherlock beside him. Lestrade, Molly and Mrs Hudson sat at his other side, looking calm and solemn as the priest droned on about a life cut short in its prime and managed to, rather tastelessly, refer to Mary as having become a bride of Christ. 

John sat and let the words sweep over him, barely paying attention to what was being said. He merely stared at the casket with its simple flower arrangement, unable to tear his gaze away. For the entire service, he was being gripped by the intense and inexplicable fear that the lid would open and she would sit up, alive once more, and ask the priest to marry them at once.

The thought left him pale and trembling and made him sway on his feet as he stood outside a little while later, receiving the condolences of people who barely knew him and definitely hadn’t known Mary. He noticed a lot of mourners watching him with eagle eyes, waiting for him to betray himself and declare that he had killed her personally. They were disappointed.

Sherlock stood next to him and looked like an angel of death in his black suit and black shirt, with dark curls framing his pale face. Every now and then, he reached out and grasped John’s elbow to steady him, murmured a soothing word just loud enough to be heard by whoever was talking at John at the time, and generally gave the impression of a concerned friend offering support and succour in this sad, trying time.

It was a masterful display.

At one point during the ceremony, the priest had asked John if he would like to say a few words and he had pressed his lips together and shaken his head, managing to indicate that if he tried to talk, he would break down. Sherlock had squeezed his forearm in a show of camaraderie and the service had passed without any speeches beyond the ramblings of the priest.

The police were there, too, of course. Sherlock had quietly pointed them out when they had arrived, a man and a woman in civilian clothes, blending in with the other guests and observing John and everyone around him with quiet suspicion.

“They still suspect me. Or you. Or both of us. Despite what Lestrade said about us being in the clear,” John murmured to Sherlock in a quiet moment between shaking the hands of near strangers who were oh so sorry for his loss. He didn’t look at the pair. They had given him their condolences already, voices full of sympathy but eyes hard and suspicious. John hadn’t let it faze him. He knew he was innocent, he knew Sherlock was innocent, and he knew Mary had been anything but. If the Yard wanted to waste some resources on trying to establish anything else, they were welcome to try.

The entire day felt disjointed. He was sitting in the Church, he was shaking hands, he was standing in a graveyard watching them lower a coffin in the ground. He forced himself into military straightness, kept his chin high and shoulders back, staring at some point in the distance. Past and present seemed to weaver in and out of each other and suddenly he was in a different graveyard, watching a different coffin being lowered into the dirt, felt the black hole of grief open up to swallow him whole, felt himself sway forward-

Sherlock shifted next to him, his arm brushing against John’s, and reality snapped back.

‘ _He’s fine, he’s fine, he’s fine,’_ John reminded himself, leaning into Sherlock just a little, just enough to have their arms pressed together from shoulder to wrist.

He had thought he was over it. He had thought, after all the revelations about Mary, that her funeral would be just another farce to get through. Instead, it seemed to drain the life right out of him. He had wanted to marry her. Christ, he had wanted to spend the rest of his life with this ... this personification of a lie. What had he been thinking? Had he been thinking at all? He had been so angry with Sherlock and so hurt and he hadn’t even questioned it when Mary had taken his aborted proposal and run with it. And even then there had been the nagging feeling that he had missed something, that something wasn’t right.

He didn’t even try to tell himself he had somehow sensed the lies in her. She had been too good for that, too cold. But he had known, deep down, that a life with her - with anyone - could not be the perfect fairytale it had promised to be. Not while Sherlock was alive. Perhaps not even if he really were dead, simply because John knew he had been alive once, had known him once. Perhaps any other life simply paled in comparison to the one they had led as a matter of default.

“John,” Sherlock said softly, dragging him from his reverie.

“Hm? Oh.” The priest had stopped talking and everyone was waiting expectantly, the grave open in front of him like a yawning abyss straight into hell.

John stepped forward and dropped the - now rather mangled - rose he had been fiddling with for most of the ceremony into the grave.

It landed on the coffin with a barely-there thud and John stared down at it, this last lie. A white rose for innocence. When planning the service, he had made it clear that he didn’t want any hint of red anywhere. People had assumed the colour reminded him of blood and had acquiesced easily, their eyes full of sympathy and sometimes pity.

John had been happy to let them believe that a trained doctor and army surgeon had been so traumatised by the murder of his bride he couldn’t even see a red rose anymore without thinking of blood. In truth, he simply didn’t want red roses and the romantic, passionate love they stood for to be tainted by their association with Mary. He’d rather bury innocence with her than love. Innocence had died; love hadn’t.

He realised he had been staring down into the grave for several long minutes and finally gave a sharp nod and walked away. It took barely five seconds before he heard Sherlock follow him and wondered if he had simply chucked his flower in the grave with barely a glance. Let the police make of that what they wanted.

“All right?” Sherlock asked, keeping pace with him as John walked along amongst the headstones.

“No,” John admitted. “But it will be. I’m just glad this sham of a funeral is over. Can we go home now, do you think?”

Sherlock hesitated and glanced back the way they had come. “Probably best to stick it out for a couple more minutes,” he said. “I think some people want to say their goodbyes to you and express their sympathies again.” He frowned and lowered his voice. “Not that she deserves any sympathy for dying. I’m not sure why you have to stand there and listen to this drivel when we both know she probably deserved more than she got.”

John laughed bitterly. “People see what they want to see, remember?”

He noticed that Sherlock was carefully keeping a full two feet distance between them. Someone was watching them, then. John found himself wondering, not for the first time, if Sherlock was trying not to give them the right idea. Whatever that was.

“Just ... hand me a tissue or something,” John said. “I needed a moment. Let’s make sure it looks the part, too.”

Sherlock produced a handkerchief out of the pocket of his suit jacket and handed it over without hesitation, the white fabric fluttering in the soft breeze, clearly visible all the way back at the grave they had just abandoned.

John wiped his face. The handkerchief was clean and soft against his skin and it smelled of Sherlock. He pressed it to his nose for a long minute and just breathed in, letting that familiar scent chase away any lingering memories of another funeral and a grief so visceral he had thought it might kill him.

He lowered his hands, lifted his head and held the kerchief out to Sherlock. “Thanks.”

“Keep it,” Sherlock said. “You might need it again.”

John nodded and pocketed it, squaring his shoulders. “Let’s go back.”

*****

It was a relief to be back at Baker Street an hour later, away from all these people with their false sympathy and their empty words.

John went straight for his bag of clothes, pulled out something comfy and headed for the bathroom. Sherlock watched him go, wondering if John was doing better now, if he wanted to talk about it. He hadn’t seemed all there at the funeral and it hadn’t been difficult to figure out where his thoughts had gone. He hadn’t left Sherlock’s side for even a minute for the entire duration of the service.

Their small moment alone after the burial had been followed by more condolences and small talk so tiny it had grated on Sherlock’s nerves like sandpaper. He knew John hadn’t fared much better - for all his supposed sociability, John wasn’t actually very good at small talk and enjoyed it even less. Sherlock had stood by his side and ignored everyone as best he could while keeping an eye on those two plain-clothes police officers. He hadn’t seen them before but the Yard was big and they would make sure to use officers he and John weren’t familiar with. Sherlock wondered why they had bothered at all. They must have known he would know the moment he looked at them and there was no reason to suspect either him or John of any wrongdoing. Not with Mary’s colourful past emerging the way it surely continued to do with every hour they dug deeper into her background.

The bathroom door opened and closed and a moment later John returned, clad in a pair of joggers and his oldest t-shirt - a clear indicator that going out was not on his to-do list for the remainder of the day. Sherlock gave him a small smile on the way to his bedroom. If they were going to stay in, he wanted to get out of these stiff clothes as well. It was too hot out to wear a shirt and jacket for long.

He exchanged his suit for his silk pyjama bottoms and a white t-shirt that had seen better days. When he returned, John was already ensconced in his armchair and hiding behind a book. Sherlock decided to give him some space and set to work in the kitchen, raiding their fridge and freezer and nipping downstairs to sweet-talk Mrs Hudson out of a handful of oranges. They still had a bottle of lemon juice left in the fridge and the heat and boredom were all the excuse Sherlock needed.

John paid him no heed as he puttered about with bowls and bottles and Sherlock was happy to leave him be for an hour or two. He usually applied his chemistry knowledge in a more scientific manner but it was nice to indulge a whim for a change.

The expression of pleased surprise on John’s face when he set down a glass of cloudy lemonade beside him was certainly worth the effort.

“What’s that?”

“Lemonade,” Sherlock said. “As you very well know.”

“How would I know that?”

“It comes in a glass, smells of oranges and lemons and I’ve added one of those biodegradable straws you got when we went out for groceries the other day,” Sherlock supplied. “And you spent the past two hours listening to me make it.”

John peered at the glass. “You even put ice cubes in it.”

“It’s hot outside,” Sherlock pointed out. “What’s the point of lemonade if it isn’t cold?”

John took a sip. “It’s delicious.” He sounded surprised.

Sherlock snorted. “Simple chemistry. It was surprisingly enjoyable to make.”

“You ... made lemonade,” John said slowly.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Sherlock shrugged, feeling a bit miffed now that John was questioning his whim so extensively. “It’s hot, we’re both sweltering, we’re clearly not going out again today and you made it quite obvious you wanted to be left alone for some time. Therefore, too keep myself occupied and do something to alleviate the heat, I made lemonade. Really, John, if I had known I would be subjected to an interrogation, I would have told Mycroft to send one of his lawyers.”

John laughed. “All right, all right, you’ve made your point. I was just ... surprised, I guess. Today has been shit and here you are, making lemonade.”

“Just because the day started with a funeral, I don’t see why it should continue in the same depressing vein,” Sherlock told him. “Neither of us seems particularly sad. It seems a waste of a perfectly fine afternoon to mope about out of some sense of obligation to the norms of a society that neither knows nor cares.”

John stared at him silently, then reached for the lemonade again. “Bloody right. Cheers.”

Sherlock raised his own glass to him in a silent salute. The lemonade was cool and refreshing, with just enough sugar in it to set off the sour taste of the lemons. He made a mental note to keep the recipe and make it again at some point.

“This really is delicious,” John said. “Didn’t know you knew how to make lemonade.”

“As I said ... simple chemistry,” Sherlock told him, smiling. “I’ll take a bottle down to Mrs Hudson, she gracefully sacrificed some oranges for this endeavour.”

“Good man,” John told him and Sherlock managed to turn away in time to hide the pleased smile on his face.


	15. Chapter 15

Sherlock had tried to keep the afternoon and evening relaxed and as lighthearted as possible but he wasn’t surprised when John still woke up shaking just after 2 am. If it only took a bottle of lemonade to keep nightmares at bay, Sherlock would make one every day.

But the nightmare had come and he reached for John in the dark, murmuring wordless reassurances and wishing Mary straight to hell.

After a couple of minutes, John slumped against his chest ever so slightly. “Sorry.”

“John, we’ve been over this. No need to apologise,” Sherlock chided him softly. “Believe it or not, it did actually occur to me that the funeral might trigger more nightmares.”

One corner of John’s mouth twitched into a rather sad smile. “Knew they call you a genius for a reason.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes but relaxed a little. If John was still able to tease, he would be fine. Still ... “Want to talk about it?”

John sighed. “Not really. But I probably should. I kept ... during the funeral, I kept thinking she’d wake up, just sit up as if nothing happened and demand to be married right away. It was ... terrifying.”

He clearly meant it - Sherlock could feel the shudder travelling through his body at the thought.

“So I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised I dreamt that, too,” John murmured. “But then she just ... fell back and was dead all over again but then it was ... it was you in that coffin and I couldn’t ... I couldn’t _do_ anything.”

Guilt lanced through him at these words, at the reminder that he was no better than Mary in some ways. He too had committed the unforgivable crime of hurting John.

“John, I ...”

“Don’t you dare apologise,” John interrupted, arms winding around Sherlock’s back, holding him close. “You had your reasons for leaving and you didn’t do it because you enjoyed it.”

Sherlock shook his head. “But-”

“But nothing,” John told him firmly. “You never wanted to go. All you wanted to do was protect me, us, from Moriarty. All _she_ wanted was to make a lot of money and kill people. There’s a difference. Don’t you dare compare yourself to her.”

He shook his head, forehead still pressed to Sherlock’s chest. “I don’t understand how I could ... it _gutted_ me, losing you. I stood at your grave and I thought I’d never be happy again. I stood at her grave and all I wanted was to walk away. I didn’t feel a thing that wasn’t relief about her being gone. And yet _she_ was the one I wanted to marry. What... what sort of person does that make me?”

Sherlock didn’t know what to say. John had all but said that ... that Sherlock mattered more. That couldn’t be right, could it?

“A good person,” he managed to get out before the silence could drag on too long. “The best and kindest man, John, always. You have a-a noble heart that won’t let you go wrong. It was not in your power to see her for what she was. You have nothing to feel guilty about.”

John shook his head again. “In between all this ... this anger and hurt ... I’m glad. I’m glad she’s dead. I’m glad I never ended up marrying her.”

Sherlock snorted. “John, we’re talking about a professional assassin. If you were disappointed about it, I would consider it a cause for concern.”

That teased a weak chuckle out of him, warm puffs of air against Sherlock’s chest. He forced himself not to think about the sensation beyond registering it.

“But what if-”

“If we had found out later, we would have gotten you out,” Sherlock said. “Mycroft has to be good for something, right? Getting you divorced from someone who doesn’t even exist shouldn’t have been all that hard. Still, I can’t say I’m sorry it never got that far.”

John was quiet for some time, mulling this over, and Sherlock lay in the dark and listened to him breathe, wondering how many nights like this he had left.

Finally, John’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts with a hesitant question. “You really would have let me marry her?”

Sherlock blinked. “John, it was _your wedding day_. I had a speech written and everything.” _‘And then I burned it so you would never find it by accident.’_

“But you’re ... glad I didn’t.”

This was dangerous territory, Sherlock knew, and he phrased his response accordingly. “Considering how things turned out, yes.”

“But you would have let me marry her. If ... if she hadn’t been killed. If everything had gone off without a hitch. You would have still let me.”

“Yes, of course,” Sherlock said. It would have killed a vital part of him to do it but that hadn’t been the question.

“Why?”

That was a rather odd question to ask, Sherlock thought. Particularly since the answer was so obvious. “Because it was what you wanted.”

“You would have let me marry her ... a woman I only met a little over a year ago ... because I wanted to?”

Sherlock couldn’t help but chuckle at that. “John, there isn’t a thing anyone could do to stop you from doing what you wanted. Besides, it wasn’t really my place to tell you what to do. Or not to do, for that matter.”

John gave a short “Hmph” at that but it didn’t sound as put-out as he had probably intended it to. Did he notice that Sherlock still had his arms wrapped around him? Did he realise that Sherlock’s body language was saying so much more than he dared to put into words?

“Promise me something?” John asked, still not lifting his head. Sherlock willed his heartbeat to remain calm.

“Anything.”

He thought he could feel John smile but it was hard to tell through the fabric of his t-shirt. “Don’t ever let me get married to a half-stranger again.”

Sherlock blinked rapidly, letting the words sink in. “I promise.”

“Thank you,” John murmured.

When he fell asleep a couple of minutes later, his head was still resting on Sherlock’s chest.

*****

John was not at all surprised to find himself waking up in pretty much the same position he had fallen asleep in.

His left arm was numb because he had been lying on it for most of the night but he was warm and comfortable and could hear Sherlock’s steady heartbeat right beneath his ear. One of Sherlock’s arms was still loosely wrapped around his middle, holding him close, and the man himself was fast asleep.

John opened one eye and glanced up at him without moving his head. Sherlock’s eyes were unmoving - not REM sleep then but the deeper stage 3 non-REM sleep, based on his lax body. He likely wouldn’t wake for some time yet. Plenty of time then to think about their late-night conversation.

They seemed to be having lots of those these days. Perhaps there was just something about waking from a nightmare to find someone there who would understand. And recently even John’s waking hours had been full of nightmares.

But last night ... he wasn’t quite sure why he had asked, though he had been meaning to for quite some time. Even on his wedding day, a small voice inside him had wondered if Sherlock would really let him do this. It was possible a part of him had even hoped Sherlock wouldn’t. Apparently, he would have.

Perhaps John had been asking the wrong questions but he felt like Sherlock had answered the right one regardless.

Even as he had said that he would have let John get married, his arms had tightened by the tiniest fraction and John was sure he hadn’t imagined the slight waver in Sherlock’s voice as he’d said _‘Because you wanted to’_. As if that was all the reason he needed: John wanting something. Perhaps it was.

John thought about Sherlock saying he would let him get married even as his body indicated he didn’t want to and felt another shudder of relief travel through him. For all the things that had gone wrong, at least he hadn’t put Sherlock in a situation where he would have to watch John walk away like that. If Sherlock cared even half as much as John had begun to suspect, then it had been cruel to ask him to be best man and would have been truly unforgivable to make him stand by and watch as John got married.

It made him a little sick to imagine it. He couldn’t believe he had been so blind.

‘ _At least he was spared that’_ John thought. _‘At least we were both spared that.’_

He tried to focus on the here and now instead, on Sherlock’s arms around him and the gentle rise and fall of his chest. Alive and right here with him. John had to admit to himself that he had never felt so safe. It was a silly thought because certainly life with Sherlock was more dangerous than almost any other life could possibly be, but the danger seemed far away when Sherlock was right next to him. It was only when they got separated that the thrill of danger tipped into something much less pleasant. It was only when they were apart that disaster called.

Sherlock made a soft noise and shifted in his sleep, his mouth brushing along John’s forehead, and the warm, comfortable feeling got replaced with something a lot warmer and slightly less comfortable. He wanted to lift his head and kiss that mouth, wanted it so badly he could feel his lips tingling.

Sighing, John carefully extricated himself from Sherlock and the bed and fled to the bathroom before he could give in to the urge.

‘ _Too soon’_ he reminded himself. _‘Nine days is too soon.’_

When he returned to the bedroom a couple of minutes later for a fresh pair of socks, Sherlock had rolled over and was sleeping with his face buried in John’s pillow. He tried not to read anything into that.

*****

Sherlock breezed into the kitchen an hour after John had gotten up, dressed to go out and waving his phone.

“Lestrade texted about a murder.”

John smiled. “Good. You need something to keep yourself occupied.”

Sherlock paused. “We both do. Come with me.”

“The funeral was yesterday, Sherlock. Might be a bit soon, don’t you think?”

Sherlock frowned. “Nonsense. People can’t take several weeks off their day jobs for bereavement,” he pointed out. “They can’t expect you to hide away in here forever. Come with me. If anyone asks, you can always tell them you’re going stir crazy cooped up at home.”

When John still hesitated, Sherlock added softly: “Unless you don’t want to...?”

“No! I mean - yes, of course I want to come. I just wasn’t sure if-” John broke off and shook his head. “No, you’re right. I’m too preoccupied with what other people think. It’s not like their neat little idea of what my life is supposed to be like has ever matched the reality of it. Let me put on my shoes.”

Sherlock beamed at him and John couldn’t help but smile back. His spirits were already lifting at the thought of going out and doing something useful.

Within minutes they were in a cab on the way to the address Lestrade had texted and Sherlock was giving him a run-down of what he knew so far. The DI had been sparing with the details but that had never stopped Sherlock from knowing more than he should.

Their arrival at the small flat in Lambeth was greeted with mixed reactions. Lestrade seemed happy to see them both and greeted John with a slap on his good shoulder and a gruff ”Good to see you getting back in the saddle, John” that was just loud enough to make the rest of his team duck their heads and keep their comments to themselves, though of course some still eyed him curiously. John felt a bit like an exhibit at the zoo and tried to tune them out as best he could.

It didn’t stop Sally Donovan from stepping forward but to John’s surprise she merely smiled at him and said: “Hello John. Are you sure you want to do this? I don’t know how triggering this case might be for you. Just let us know if anything gets too much, all right?”

“Thanks Sally,” he replied, clearing his throat. “But I think I need to be here and do something. Can’t mope about forever, can I?”

She nodded. “Right. Still, if you need anything you only have to say the word. We all know one of the other teams is still looking into all angles-” she rolled her eyes “-but you’re among friends here.”

“John!” Sherlock called before he got a chance to reply. “Come and look at this.”

John sighed. “You heard the man. Thanks, for ... you know.”

He beat a hasty retreat to Sherlock, who had proceeded into the kitchen and was crouched next to the body of a young man. “Take a look at these marks, will you?”

John took up position on the other side of the body and leaned forward to examine the ligature marks on the victim’s neck. “Attempted strangulation. I don’t think it was the cause of death, though - look at that nasty head wound.”

He turned the head this way and that and stood. “I’d tell you to hand me your scarf but...” he gestured at Sherlock’s scarf- and coat-less attire in the sweltering heat.

Sherlock glanced around the room and eyed a kitchen towel instead. “How about this?”

“Perfect,” John said.

Sherlock nodded towards Lestrade. “Have one of your officers get us a clean piece of cloth. This one might have to be bagged as evidence.”

A clean cloth was fetched from somewhere and John grabbed it, eyeing the body on the floor.

“He’s about your size,” he noted, stepped behind Sherlock and, holding it by both ends, wrapped the towel around his neck from behind, pulling back just enough for Sherlock to bend backwards to keep air flowing into his lungs.

“Hold still,” he ordered and Sherlock froze in position, bent backwards at an awkward 45 degree angle. If he was startled, he didn’t show it, his expression calm and trusting as he rolled his eyes back to watch John.

“See this?” John asked Lestrade and the assembled officers, who were watching him with expressions ranging from surprise to interest. He nodded towards Sherlock’s neck. “The angle of the towel perfectly matches the ligature marks on the victim’s skin. I’d say the killer surprised him from behind and attempted to strangle him but when that failed he bashed his head against the corner of the kitchen table here.”

He gently pulled at the towel and Sherlock bent further until the back of his head was level with the corner. “You’ll have to let the medical examiner verify how often the head hit the corner, of course.”

John released the towel and gave Sherlock a little push to help him get upright. “Thanks, Sherlock.”

Sherlock turned to stare at him, wide-eyed and beaming. “Brilliant, John.”

“Seemed obvious,” John said, shrugging. “Would you like to add anything?”

Sherlock grinned, looking utterly delighted by John’s display of deductive reasoning. “Only details.”

He launched into a description of the killers approximate height and weight, the potential for abrasions on the hands from the rough kitchen towel, deduced the murder victim down to his favourite food and didn’t break John’s gaze even once during his entire speech.

“'cor,” Lestrade said when he was done. “The two of you are on fire. Just like the good old days, eh?”

He winced at his own words and sent an uneasy look in John’s direction. “Sorry.”

John merely grinned at him. “Yes,” he said. “Just like the good old days. Sherlock, do you want to go to the Yard as well?”

Sherlock shook his head. “I think we’re done. Lestrade, text me if there are any unexpected developments or you somehow fail to catch the neighbour.”

Lestrade blinked. “The neighbour? No one said anything about the neighbour!”

The look Sherlock gave him was mildly exasperated. “I thought it was obvious,” he said, stepping back into the hallway and gesturing at the wall. “His picture hangs right here. Couldn’t ask for a better physical description really - it was clearly taken only a couple of months ago. You can see the Elizabeth Tower in the background with all the scaffolding around it, so it must be a recent photograph. I’m sure he’ll tell you his motive in great detail once you catch him. Was there anything else?”

“No,” Lestrade sighed, staring at the picture. “No, nothing at all. Thanks.”

John patted his shoulder in passing. “Call if you need anything,” he said. “It’s been too long since I last went out on a case. I missed it.”

And he followed Sherlock out.


	16. Chapter 16

Sherlock spent the entire cab ride home trying not to stare at John, both for fear of what John might see on his face and of what he might do if he looked at him for too long. He had never wanted to kiss John so badly in all his life, and that included that moment in Kew Gardens.

Luckily, John seemed utterly oblivious. He was looking out of the window, watching the city pass by with a slight smile on his lips. Sherlock hastily looked away before he could give in to the urge to reach for him.

They didn’t speak until they were back in their sitting room and John was taking off his shoes, still smiling to himself. “That was really good,” he said happily. “Thanks for talking me into coming along.”

Sherlock had to clear his throat before he could reply. “You’re welcome.”

Perhaps John noticed something off about his tone because his expression turned cautious. “I’m sorry if I overste-”

“No,” Sherlock interrupted. “You were ... brilliant.”

And he couldn’t  _not_ look at John now, couldn’t  _not_ stare at his beloved face.

John looked at the floor and then back at him, unsure but pleased. “You think?”

Sherlock took two steps forward until he was standing right in front of him. “Yes. You do know how I hate to repeat myself, John.”

“Huh,” John made, definitely pleased. “I thought maybe you weren’t a fan of me strangling you like that.”

“Oh please, how often have I made you play the victim?” Sherlock asked. “Don’t be silly, John. It was brilliantly done. And I did catch on to what you were planning when you indicated you wanted my scarf.”

John grinned at him. “Shame you weren’t wearing it. I’m sure half the Yarders have fantasies about strangling you with it.”

“Well, they got the closest approximation they ever will today,” Sherlock said, grinning back and forcing himself to link his hands behind his back so he wouldn’t accidentally reach for John and pull him close. “I’m sure someone took pictures.”

“Not sure if images of me strangling you are very well-timed right now,” John mused. There was a spark of humour in his eyes despite the all too real weight of his words. “The press will spin anything into a story these days.”

“Perhaps one day they’ll accidentally stumble across the truth,” Sherlock said, desperate to move the topic away from anything potentially revealing. “I’m frankly surprised they haven’t found out about Mary yet.”

He watched a shadow cross John’s face and hated himself just a little for bringing her up again. “Yeah,” John said. “Though I’m sure it would do a lot to stop the speculations about how and why  _we_ killed her.”

He sniffed. “Not that there’s much speculation about the why.”

Sherlock couldn’t help it - he tensed. “Have you been googling?”

“Just a little.”

“John...”

“I know, I know,” John sighed. “It was a bad idea. Won’t repeat it, I swear. I just thought it’d be useful to know what everyone is thinking about it all.”

Sherlock shook his head. “You know it doesn’t work like that. They’ll think what they think and all you can do is be yourself. You and I both know that neither of us killed her and so does the police, even though they have to investigate us just to be able to say they have. What does it matter what everyone else thinks?”

John opened his mouth to reply but apparently found no answer, so he simply sighed.

Seeing him so unhappy made Sherlock promptly abandon his attempts at keeping his distance. He stepped forward and pulled John into a hug that was just rough enough to pass for friendly. “Don’t bother with other people,” he murmured. “You know the intelligence of that creature known as a crowd is the square root of the number of people in it.”

John chuckled, wrapping his arms around him in return. “Are you saying you were actually listening when I read you that line from my book? That was word-perfect, I think.”

“It’s a brilliant line,” Sherlock said. “And you laughed a lot when reading that book. I figured it couldn’t have been that bad.”

He carefully left unsaid that he had swiped it from the table next to John’s armchair and read it in a single sitting while John was at work one day. He hadn’t been disappointed. Standing in their sitting room with John’s head tucked under his chin, he was almost willing to confess to it.

John sighed quietly and relaxed against him, hands idly tracing patterns on Sherlock’s back. He found himself momentarily preoccupied with trying to discern them until John spoke again.

“You’re right. I shouldn’t care. I don’t know why I still do, after so long. It’s not anyone’s business what I have and haven’t done or what I am doing or who I’m doing it with.”

Sherlock had to bite his lip to keep from suggesting some things John could do with him that the media would definitely have a fit about. 

"Quite right" he said instead.

John gave him another squeeze, murmured “Thank you” and let go, leaving him with no other option but to release his hold and step back. He did so reluctantly and retreated to the window. Perhaps a bit of violin music would help him settle his mind.

*****

John had known it was going to happen sooner or later, male physiology being what it was, but he still wasn’t very happy to wake up hard and aching in the early hours of the morning. Under normal circumstances, he would have simply shoved a hand in his pants, dealt with the issue and gone back to sleep, but Sherlock was asleep not quite next to him, his left leg slung across John’s and his face all but mashed into John’s left upper arm.

By now John was almost certain that Sherlock wouldn’t really mind him doing whatever he wanted to do in his bed so long as it didn’t involve other people but he would prefer to err on the side of caution. 

If he was entirely honest, he was surprised it had taken that long. The male body tended to go through a system check roughly three times a night, thus drastically increasing the likelihood of someone waking up with an entirely unprovoked erection. He was frankly astonished the issue hadn’t come up sooner. Surely even Sherlock wasn’t above standard bodily function. Then again, Sherlock tended to sleep on his stomach, so there was a good chance John simply hadn’t noticed.

Thinking about Sherlock and erections really wasn’t helping his current situation, quickly turning the system check into something rather more provoked. Sighing, John carefully extracted his legs from beneath Sherlock’s and slid out of bed.

Safely ensconced in the bathroom, he decided he might as well take a shower. It was getting light outside already and he wanted to write up this latest case for the blog. It would be good to get back to a normal activity.

With the hot water pelting down on his back and his hand loosely wrapped around his hard cock, John wondered if perhaps it was time to return to his own bedroom upstairs.

It was right there, just waiting for him to give it a good dusting and move back in. And if he continued to sleep in Sherlock's bed, sooner or later Sherlock would be the first to wake and notice the results of the 'system check' and then things would get very awkward very quickly. 

Yet he shied away from the idea, an unhappy sound building in his throat at the thought. A full night’s sleep was still rather hit and miss and despite his life slowly settling back into some semblance of order; nightmares still happened more often than not.

‘ _And I’m not the only one who has trouble sleeping’_ he reminded himself, twisting his hand and letting his head thunk back against the slick bathroom tiles.

What it came down to, though, was that he simply didn’t want to leave. He didn’t want to sleep without Sherlock right next to him. He certainly didn’t want to watch Sherlock’s carefully blank face when he told him he had decided to move back upstairs, no matter how legitimate his reasons for the move might be.

No, John decided. Moving back upstairs would definitely send the wrong message. He had promised himself he would go slowly and not rush headfirst into danger for once, for both their sakes. But returning to his own bedroom was a clear step in the wrong direction, away from what he actually wanted. Sherlock didn’t seem to mind having him there and, judging by the fact that he had adopted a semi-regular sleeping pattern and tended to wrap himself around at least one of John’s body parts during the night, he seemed to actively prefer his presence.

It was the thought of Sherlock’s warm body wrapped around him, relaxed and trusting in his sleep, that brought John off. He barely managed to stifle his grunt with his fist and closed his eyes for a minute, enjoying the bliss sweeping through his body.

Yes, he thought as he finished his shower and reached for a towel. He could live like this for quite some time. He could sleep in Sherlock’s bed and benefit from a full night’s sleep and deal with any problems as they arose in the privacy of a shower. There was no need to overthink this or to skip the thinking bit entirely and fall head first into something he might not be ready for. This time, he would do it right. This time he wouldn’t manipulate himself out of something he wanted that didn’t cause him any harm. He was done with that.

*****

Sherlock woke the moment John’s leg slid out from underneath his. He kept his eyes closed, relishing the rare sensation of peace he experienced just from listening to John moving about the flat after a night spent sleeping next to him.

It hardly mattered that sleeping (and occasionally talking) was all they ever did. Sherlock already knew he would rather have this for the rest of his life than get shagged through the mattress just one single time. Not that that had ever really been an option but one could hope.

For now, there were too many things standing in his way: a pointless police investigation with him and John as the suspects, far too little time between Mary’s death and the present moment and, most importantly, John’s ambiguous-at-best feelings for him.

Sherlock was almost certain that there was something there. But “almost” and “something” weren’t variables he was comfortable using in his calculations and for the time being he already had more than he had thought he’d have even half a year ago. He had gone from a bleeding wreck haunting 221b on his own to sleeping in the same bed as John Watson and he couldn’t remember ever having been happier. Perhaps it wasn’t decent to be so glad that someone had been murdered but he’d be lying if he claimed he wouldn’t be willing to send flowers and chocolates to Mary’s killer at the drop of a hat. Hell, he would even pay for them himself instead of stealing one of Mycroft’s credit cards.

The sound of the shower being turned on in the bathroom brought him back to the here and now and he shifted a little, burying his head in John’s pillow and letting his familiar scent wash through his lungs. This was home.  _He_ was home. It was the best feeling in the world.

He didn’t know how much time had passed but there came another noise through the wall, over the sound of the rushing water. A bitten-off noise and a soft thunk as if from a head hitting the wall. In any other situation, he would have been out of bed and bursting into the room with a gun in one hand and a knife in the other but logic intervened before he had time to so much as tense.

John was in the shower. And Sherlock remembered what that sounded like, of course he did.

Something hot and heavy rushed through his veins.

He could barge in, he knew. Could claim he had heard a noise and had been worried. But John would not like any such scenario at all and the last thing Sherlock wanted was to make John withdraw. This newfound closeness was too precious to risk it on the want that suddenly surged through his body like a storm flood.

Biting his lip in an attempt at distraction, he stayed precisely where he was, kept his eyes closed and tried to find his way back to sleep. Anything, just no thoughts about John in the shower and what he was doing there. Sherlock shifted a little to find a more comfortable position, hiking his leg up a bit higher on the mattress.

The shower was shut off and a minute later he heard John brushing his teeth. He tried to focus on that, tried to relax and wrangle the want back into the box it had escaped from.

John emerged from the bathroom and Sherlock couldn’t help but open one eye and glance at him. Warm skin, flushed pink, stretching over John’s muscular chest and arms, broad shoulders dotted with drops of water from John’s wet hair, a towel slung around his waist. 

Sherlock buried his face in the pillows again and moaned, hoping it sounded like a complaint at being woken.

“Good morning,” John greeted him, sounding unfairly chipper for someone who had just shot all of Sherlock’s mental processes to bits. “There’s still hot water if you want a shower.”

Sherlock considered getting up and decided he wasn’t capable. He muttered something into the pillow and pulled the blanket over his head. There, let John think of that what he wanted.

John chuckled and the rustling of fabric indicated he was getting dressed. Sherlock decided to stay right where he was indefinitely to avoid unhappy accidents, such as him lunging at John and dragging him back into the bed with him.

He flinched a little in surprise as John patted his shoulder through the thick blanket. “I’ll go make breakfast. You just get some more sleep if you like.”

Sherlock hummed in agreement and waited until John had disappeared into the kitchen before daring to breathe out. It was rather shaky.

He managed to stay in bed for at least another quarter hour before his traitorous brain raised the idea of a humid bathroom and a hot shower that had just had John in it. 

Sherlock gave up. There was only so much he could do before he had to give in and he had clearly reached his limit of endurance.

He made it into the shower without incident and even remembered to bring a change of clothes and a towel, which wasn't as easy as it sounded given that most of his blood had vacated his brain for a nice holiday further south. The shower was still wet, the tiles glistening with condensed water and the air warm and humid and smelling of John's shampoo.

Sherlock took pride in how he managed not to make any sound whatsoever as he took himself in hand. Two years away had taught him to muffle all sound and even keep his breathing quiet under extreme stress. 

_'I'm certainly under stress right now'_ he thought wryly, tipping his head back to let the water pelt down on his forehead.

A quarter of an hour was all that separated him from John being right here, naked and wanting. The thought alone was almost enough and the mental image of what John had been doing in here was enough to finish the job.

He had to lean against the tiles for a minute or two to get his breath back. God, that hadn't happened to him in a very long time indeed. All the more reason not to linger, then, unless he wanted John to get suspicious. That should be avoided if possible - he had already been dropping hints all over the place, most of them quite accidentally, and it would not do for John to feel pressured into something he might not actually want.

Sherlock hurriedly dried himself, brushed his teeth and got dressed in record time before spending the usual inordinate amount of time on his hair. This, at least, John would not find surprising at all, but additional shower time would raise all sorts of flags. It certainly did for Sherlock.

"Sherlock? Do you want breakfast?" John called from the kitchen.

"In a minute!" Sherlock called back and wandered back into his bedroom to collect his phone. He had barely removed the charger when it lit up with a phone call.

Mycroft.

Sherlock glared at the screen but reluctantly answered the call. "What is it?"

"And a good morning to you, little brother." Mycroft was oozing smugness, so much so that Sherlock was tempted to hold the phone away from his ear to check if it had begun to drip.

"Don't pretend you give a fig about manners, Mycroft. Was there something you wanted or were you just bored with talking to yourself?"

His brother ignored the jab, as he usually did. "I figured you would like a little update on the investigation into the premature death of Miss Morstan."

Sherlock sighed. He had feared something along these lines as soon as he had seen who was calling. "What is it now? And shouldn't you be calling John about any developments?"

"It's not so much a development as just another step in the investigation," Mycroft told him. "It seems your friends at the Yard are still not entirely convinced of both of your innocence."

"So they've chosen to waste some more time investigating us?" Sherlock asked, incredulous. "They've already got a witness statement from DI Lestrade confirming we had no window of opportunity, nor a motive."

"They doubt the lack of a motive, apparently," Mycroft drawled. "I suppose it might have something to do with the two of you basically being attached at the hip these days."

"Oh for the love of- he's my best friend and he's grieving," Sherlock snapped. "What, did they think I would abandon him?"

"And naturally that is all there is to it." The sarcasm was impossible to miss.

"Yes," Sherlock ground out, hating his brother for making him say it. "It is."

"For now," Mycroft said loftily. "Either way, some of the Yarders are not convinced. Not DI Lestrade and his little ducklings, they are being kept at the edges of the investigation, unsurprisingly. But some other concerned parties are very interested in proving you had your hands in this somehow - either just one of you or both."

"And how are they going to prove this?" Sherlock asked.

"It seems they have requested permission to check your finances."

For a long moment, all Sherlock could do was stare at his own bedroom in disbelief.

"They think we hired a killer," he said tonelessly.

"Quite so. I have taken the liberty to check both of your accounts just to make sure no one else gained access to them and moved suspicious amounts of money to place the blame on you. You will be glad to hear there is nothing untoward in the records."

That was in fact a relief. Sherlock let out a breath. "Thank you for confirming that. I'm sure the Yard will discover the same information soon enough. Do keep an eye on the accounts in case anything about this changes, will you?"

"Of course. Take care, little brother. And if you must continue down this road, do try to be a little bit more circumspect. There is only so much I can do and the police are not the only ones taking an interest."

Mycroft hung up without giving him a chance to respond, which was probably for the best.

"Sherlock?" John appeared in the bedroom door, took one look at the phone in his hand and tensed. "Everything all right?"

"That was Mycroft," Sherlock said and summarised what his brother had told him, though he edited the more personal bits.

John groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. "All right. So the police think we hired a killer, though with what money and connections, I sure don't know, and apparently we did this to kill my bride on our wedding day because we're ...what? Planning to elope? We could have saved ourselves a lot of money if I had simply ended things with Mary and cancelled the wedding. This is the stupidest theory I've heard in a long time."

"Agreed," Sherlock said, electing to ignore the casual mention of the two of them eloping together. "And apparently we've also got the press sniffing about, trying to discover a scandal. I suppose we can only hope it will take them some time to learn about Mary's true identity or we won't have a moment's peace."

John sighed. "God, what a mess."

He took several deep breaths and lifted his head. "All right. Here's what we'll do: let the Yard investigate us. They can check my bank records until they turn blue for all I care and if they happen to find any money in there, I'd personally be happy to hear about it. Same for the damn vultures from the press. We'll ignore them for now. I haven't seen any lurking around outside yet, but we should probably keep the curtains closed anyway in case they have tele lenses."

"They definitely have and if we keep the curtains closed all the time, we will suffocate in here if this heatwave continues," Sherlock said, though he privately agreed with John's battle plan, such as it was.

John shrugged. "We'll survive. But I won't have them taking pictures of us living our lives and taking them out of context to feed the news cycle."

Sherlock nodded. "All right."

"Good." John gave him a delightfully sharp smile - this was Captain Watson taking charge and Sherlock was thrilled to see it. "Come have breakfast with me."

Sherlock was only too happy to follow his command.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The book Sherlock quotes to John is "Jingo" by Sir Terry Pratchett. I can only recommend it and all his other works to all of you. They taught me what it means to be human.


	17. Chapter 17

John shooed Sherlock out of the flat and to Barts right after breakfast. “I can feel your restless energy from across the room. Go annoy Molly for a bit, conduct some fun experiments, don’t bring back too many body parts and have a good time. I’ll see you tonight.”

Sherlock wanted to argue that he was perfectly fine staying in but couldn’t quite make his mouth shape the lie.

“What will you be doing all day?” he asked instead. “You could come along, you know?”

John snorted. “And interrupt you and Molly geeking out about livers? No, thank you. I’ll take myself shopping. I need some clothes and Mycroft said he’d help me return the rings for their original price. I’m really glad we didn’t get around to having anything engraved on them.”

Sherlock hesitated. Returning the wedding rings was a big step, wasn’t it? Emotional, surely. He should be there, offer some support. What help could Mycroft possibly be?

“Don’t look at me like that,” John said. “I’ll be fine. Now be off with you. Text me sometime, will you? And remember to eat something during the day. No, forget that, I’ll just ask Molly to shove a packet of crisps into your mouth.”

Sherlock wondered if John often entertained fantasies about shoving things into his mouth and felt his ears get hot. He blinked to dispel the thought and raised his hands in defeat. “All right. But text me if you get bored or ... anything else. Text if you need me.”

John smiled. “Will do. Now go.”

With no other option left to him, Sherlock did.

He tried to tell himself that it made sense for John to want some time alone. At least they would have something new to talk about in the evening. And he had been at a loss for what to do today. Lestrade had been quiet since the case yesterday morning, probably still working through endless piles of paperwork if he had even gotten hold of their suspect yet. 

A day at Barts sounded great and Molly was almost always pleased to see him. In fact, she seemed more relaxed around him now than she used to be. She barely stammered anymore and it took real effort to make her blush nowadays. Sherlock wondered how much of that was down to the new girl in the blood analysis lab. Perhaps he could ask Molly about her. That boring fiance of hers wasn’t doing her any good at all. Perhaps he could give her a little payback for their previous conversation, a gentle nudge in the right direction. A favour repaid.

He hopped out of the cab and breezed through the familiar doors and corridors, hoping to startle Molly a little by throwing the lab door open extra forcefully.

“Hello,” she said calmly, not looking up from her work. “John texted to say you were coming.”

Sherlock huffed. “He practically ordered me to. Wouldn’t let me come with him.”

“You have been glued to each other’s side for ten days or so, apart from that one morning you spent here,” Molly pointed out. “Give the man some space.”

“Space is terrible,” Sherlock announced. “I don’t want space. That’s the exact opposite of what I w-”

He broke off, aware of how much he was revealing.

Molly finally looked at him and smiled. “Yes, I know. You  _have_ heard the saying  _‘Absence makes the heart grow fonder’_ haven’t you?”

“If mine got any fonder, it’d probably explode,” Sherlock muttered, slumping into a chair.

“It’s too soon,” Molly reminded him. “You know that and I’m sure so does he.”

Did John know? It seemed impossible that he didn’t. Surely even John couldn’t be that oblivious, right? Not after not one but several almost-kisses and the way Sherlock had clung to him and all the things he had accidentally let slip.

Molly seemed to know exactly what he was thinking, as was so often the case. “I’m sure he does, Sherlock,” she insisted softly. “We’ve been over this. Neither of you is half as subtle as you think you are.”

“Even worse,” Sherlock said. “The last thing we want is for the media to catch wind ... they’re already speculating, apparently. I haven’t looked at any newspaper or online news site since it happened.”

Humming in what might be sympathy, Molly closed the file she had been filling in and turned to him. “Come on, then. I’ve got someone who died after eating stinging nettles raw.”

Sherlock perked up. “Suffocation?”

Molly grinned. “Let’s find out. I haven’t started the autopsy yet but I’m sure his oesophagus will look a treat.”

Sherlock followed her into the morgue, his curiosity piqued. How brilliant of John to have sent him here today of all days! He’d have to thank him later. For now, there was a body to examine.

*****

While Sherlock and Molly were elbows-deep in a dead man and having a marvellous time examining his oesophagus, John had gotten picked up by one of Mycroft’s elegant cars and taken to the jeweller where he had returned the wedding rings with very little fuss for precisely the same amount he had gotten them for. Secretly, a part of him had considered the possibility of getting back more than their worth because he had long since stopped assuming the world’s rules applied to Mycroft Holmes. He wasn’t disappointed, though, merely relieved to have gotten rid of them and his money back. It would be nice to be able to contribute something to the rent, though Sherlock would no doubt give him an exasperated look if he hinted at the subject.

John had never quite figured out just how much money Sherlock actually had. He seemed like the stereotypical trust fund kid but he had also lived on the streets for at least a couple of months after uni and by now John knew that Mycroft had caught on to the drugs when Sherlock had swiped his credit card to buy them. None of that indicated a readily available source of money.

Then again, Sherlock had been working for a series of illustrious or at least very rich clients among all the Joe Averages that asked for his help in the past ten years or so. He remembered the cheque Sebastian Wilkes had written without batting an eye and shuddered. Perhaps the rent was not something Sherlock was worried about.

Perhaps it never had been, which raised the question of why Sherlock, in his Dolce & Gabbana shirts and tailored shoes, had needed a flatmate at all.

John smiled to himself. He would ask him at some point, if only to watch Sherlock flounder for an answer.

First, though, he would have to face an interrogation by Mycroft that was likely going to be an experience similar to pulling teeth.

With the rings returned and their full value back in his bank account, John settled into the soft leather of the car and waited patiently for Mycroft to get to the point. The drive there had been spent on pointless small talk and solemn silence. Now that the important business of the day was done, he was sure the older Holmes brother would finally get to the point.

“I can’t help but notice my brother has deigned not to accompany you on this little trip,” Mycroft said, stating the obvious.

John shrugged. “I told him to go to St Bart’s. There’s no need for him to be here and I certainly wouldn’t inflict the two of you on one another without reason. I’m just about capable of returning some jewelry without the two of you hovering at my shoulders, squabbling like children.”

Mycroft made a face any dentist would have recognised. John mentally awarded himself a point.

“And he accepted that?” Every syllable expressed Mycroft’s doubt about his brothers placidity.

John offered him a thin smile. “I told him to go have fun. Contrary to popular belief, he does listen to me on occasion.”

“Hmm, rather more attentively than a person might think,” Mycroft mused. “I wonder, do you listen to him with equal attention?”

“Rather more than a person might think,” John echoed, raising an eyebrow. “Was there a point to this conversation beyond establishing the obvious fact that Sherlock is not in this car with us?”

That was another point for him, he thought. Mycroft hated having to say precisely what he thought and John had given him no choice but to stop beating around the bush.

“What are you doing, John?” Mycroft asked.

John looked around with exaggerated surprise. “It looks like I’m sitting in a car, having a tedious conversation.”

Mycroft chose to ignore the jab. “And tonight?”

“Tonight I’ll have something to eat and perhaps catch a full night’s sleep,” John said calmly.

“And my brother?”

John refused to give an inch. “Will hopefully get some food and sleep as well. Lord knows he can do with both on a regular basis.”

Mycroft was starting to look exasperated, verging on annoyed. John had to struggle to hide his smile.

“And that is all, is it?” Mycroft demanded. “I cannot help but notice that there has been precious little activity in your bedroom these past two weeks, John.”

“None, to be precise,” John told him calmly. “Seeing as I’ve been sleeping in Sherlock’s bed, as you no doubt know. I’ll remind him to look for bugs again.”

“No need,” Mycroft said coldly. “There aren’t any.”

“I’m sure you’ll understand that I am not willing to take your word for it,” John replied.

That earned him a rather short-lived glare before Mycroft returned to the point he had been trying to make. “And do you believe that sharing a bed with my brother is a good idea?”

John raised an eyebrow at him. “I think it may be the best idea I’ve ever had, in fact. Well, that we had, actually. It was a bit of a collaboration.”

“John...”

He sighed. “He’s fine, Mycroft. We’re both better off knowing we’re not alone. I’m not going to spontaneously ravish him in the night.”

From the looks of it, the toothache was back. “Yes, I was afraid you would say that.”

John smiled benignly. “I intend to take my sweet time.”

He watched the words land and ignite and took a moment or two to enjoy the expression on Mycroft’s face before it was wiped away and replaced by that rapid double-blink both Holmes brothers resorted to when faced with unexpected information.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me,” John said. “I’m going to do it right this time around. And I would appreciate you staying out of it unless expressly asked for assistance.” He grimaced. “I’m sure the media would have a splendid time with the potential scandal. Therefore, there won’t be a scandal. We both deserve better than that. Am I clear?”

“Quite.” Mycroft stared at him with that cool, assessing gaze. “Do you know, John, I believe you are finally starting to show the potential I saw in you all those years ago when you first showed up. Enjoy the rest of your shopping trip.”

The car rolled to a stop and John took that as his cue to leave.

*****

Sherlock returned home late. On the cab ride home, he discovered half a dozen texts by John and felt a bit bad for not reading or responding to them earlier.

“ _Got my money back.”_

“ _Your brother is a wanker. How did you ever manage to live under the same roof as him?”_

“ _I think I gave Mycroft at least half a heart attack.”_

“ _Went shopping and got a surprise for you. I hope you’re up for an experiment.”_

“ _Are you coming home anytime soon?”_

“ _Guess I’ll just get started on dinner then.”_

That last one had been sent half an hour ago. Sherlock texted a quick “On my way back”, then returned his attention to the other messages. What on earth had Mycroft done? And, more pressingly, what had John done to him in retaliation?

He wished he could have been there to witness whatever it was. Mycroft always wore this delightful expression that suggested a dire need for a root canal treatment when John managed to properly annoy him but Sherlock didn’t think there was anything in the world that could give Mycroft heart palpitations of any kind. It wasn’t an organ he was sure his brother actually had.

And what was that about an experiment? John didn’t usually propose experiments. Was this related to dinner?

Sherlock considered the possibility of John, who was as adventurous in the kitchen as the common koala, cooking something new on a whim. He decided it was unlikely that he would be asked to consume something of questionable taste and origin.

Once at Baker Street, he took the stairs two at a time and found John sitting at the kitchen table with several boxes of steaming take-out in front of him.

“Just in time,” John said, smiling. “I decided I was too lazy to cook, so I ordered our favourites from that Chinese place we used to go to.”

The scent wafting through the kitchen had told Sherlock as much and so had the delivery boy on the scooter passing his cab upon his arrival but it was nice to get verbal confirmation. He knew exactly which restaurant John was referring to - they had first gone there in the middle of the night after their very first case together, when John had just shot a serial killer and Sherlock had just fallen head over heels in love with him. It wasn’t a night he was likely to ever forget.

Even now the scent of dim sum and peanut sauce triggered a vivid memory of that first night and he felt his heart beat in double-time in response.

“Did you have a good day with Molly?” John asked as Sherlock hung his coat by the door and took a seat opposite him.

Sherlock nodded and launched into a detailed description of the nettle victim. John nodded along and made just the right faces in response to his monologue in between nibbling at spring rolls and dumplings and Sherlock reminded himself how lucky he was to have a flatmate who didn’t mind discussing a dead man’s oesophagus over dinner.

“What did you do to Mycroft today?” he finally asked, having finished his rundown of his day at Barts.

John shrugged and smiled. “He was asking questions I didn’t appreciate,” he said. “Incidentally, I think you should do another bug sweep in your bedroom.”

Sherlock froze for several long seconds before he managed to force himself to speak. “I’ll do it right after dinner.”

“No need to look so put out,” John told him, still smiling. “Mycroft was trying to be ... well, a big brother, I suppose. I think he’s trying to look out for you.”

Sherlock tried to imagine Mycroft threatening to break John’s legs if he hurt him in any way and grimaced. “It’s hardly his place. I’m sorry, he never did learn which lines not to cross.”

John shrugged again. “It’s fine. I told him he didn’t need to worry.”

It took a lot of effort to merely hum in vague agreement and reach for another spring roll when all Sherlock really wanted to do was to grab John by the shoulders and shout  _‘What is that supposed to mean?!’_ at him. The statement was so painfully vague, so ambiguous as to be entirely useless. 

Did John mean Mycroft needn’t worry about him hurting Sherlock’s feelings because he had no intention of ever mentioning them at all? Or did he mean Mycroft (and by extension Sherlock) didn’t need to worry because John intended to... to... he couldn’t even make himself think it, not with John sitting opposite him.

“I’ve still got some acid stored away somewhere,” he heard himself say over the roaring of his mind. “Do you want to help me dissolve any bugs I find? We can send a video to Mycroft, that should make our stance clear.”

John grinned. “Sounds just like my sort of entertainment.”

They went to work as soon as they were done with dinner and had stored the remaining food in the fridge for tomorrow. By now they had both gotten quite good at finding bugs, years of experience in finding them paying off. Mycroft’s agents, for all their training, were creatures of habit and tended to go for the same old hiding places.

John checked under the bed and in the nightstands while Sherlock, standing on the bed, examined the ceiling lamp.

“Do you know, he claimed there weren’t any bugs left in your room,” John said after a quarter of an hour with no results. “Perhaps he was telling the truth for a change.”

Sherlock frowned. “That doesn’t sound like him. What precisely did he say to you regarding our sleeping arrangement?”

“Just that he had noticed there wasn’t ... how did he put it ... oh yeah, ‘a lot of activity’ in my bedroom,” John said, chuckling.

“And you said...?” Sherlock left the question open-ended.

“That there wasn’t any because I’m sleeping in your bed,” John said calmly. “Told him it had been a joint decision by the two of us and strongly hinted that it wasn’t any of his business.”

Sherlock snorted, hopping off the bed and approaching his closet. “That’s never stopped him before.”

He stretched his arm above his head to check the top of his closet and winced as the scarred skin of his back pulled taut.

“All right?” John asked, having noticed his grimace.

“It’s fine,” Sherlock assured him, rolling his shoulders and continuing with what he had been doing. “I’ve been slagging off on the physio. Should probably get back to that before the skin tightens too much and permanently restricts my range of movement.”

John winced in sympathy and rolled his own shoulder in a clearly subconscious gesture. “Yeah, I know exactly what you mean.”

As far as Sherlock knew, John had been doing physio for his shoulder ever since he had recovered from the gunshot wound enough to move his arm at all. Of course, there was the possibility that he had stopped while Sherlock was gone, letting things slide just as Sherlock had done in recent weeks as first the wedding preparations and then the fallout from Mary’s death had pushed everything else aside.

“Mmh, we should probably do something about that,” he said, making sure to keep his tone casual.

John grinned. “I’m one step ahead of you this time. Wait here.”

Sherlock watched him go with a furrowed brow. Was this the surprise John had mentioned and that he had so far failed to deduce? Granted, he hadn’t tried very hard, but John had not given him anything to work with. He had been shopping on Oxford Street and Regent Street, had passed by Seven Dials at some point - they had dug up the street and there was nowhere else he could have gotten this type of mud on his shoes - but none of these places gave any indication as to what he had bought and he had been careful to hide whatever it was.

A moment later, John returned from the sitting room, holding out a bottle of ...

“Massage oil?” Sherlock asked dumbly. 

“I’ve been doing some research while you were at Bart’s,” John explained. “There are some nasty scars on your back and you’ve already mentioned you’re worried they might restrict your movement. I was thinking the same thing. So I figured I’d find something to help keep your back in its best possible shape. It probably won’t hurt my shoulder, either.”

Sherlock took the bottle from John’s outstretched hand and turned it to look at the ingredients listed on the label. Nothing that looked toxic, of course, but he wouldn’t have expected John to buy anything trashy anyway.

Not that it mattered. Though any improvement to the scars on his back would be appreciated and he felt touched by John thinking of it, he was more concerned with the implications of the oil.

He stared down at the bottle, trying to puzzle out the full extend of its message.

“Would you like to try it?” John asked.

‘ _Would you like me to touch you?’_ Sherlock’s mind translated the question. His mouth went dry. He could imagine it only too well - John’s strong, warm hands on his back, slick with oil, stroking across scar tissue and soft skin alike...

‘ _It probably won’t hurt my shoulder, either,’_ John had said. That rather heavily implied that he wasn’t averse to Sherlock touching him in return, didn’t it?

He swallowed and tried to make his tone nonchalant. “Yes, let’s. I can create a spreadsheet and we can compare how well it works on the different types of scars we have.”

John nodded. “Between the two of us, we have my entry and exit wound, your whip marks and burn scars and ... did you say there was a knife wound?”

It was amazing how easy it was to discuss his various injuries, as if they had happened in another life. “Yes. Clean stab wound in Bangladesh. Just scraped past my kidney - I got lucky.”

John snorted. “You’d have been lucky if the knife had missed you altogether.”

“True,” Sherlock conceded. “Given the circumstances, it was still lucky. From what I gathered, my opponent at the time rarely missed.”

“You’re doing nothing to reassure me here,” John said. “Please tell me you at least had a competent doctor to look after you.”

“I did manage to keep the kidney,” Sherlock reminded him. “Didn't even get infected. But I would rather have had you there with me.”

John smiled a little sadly. “You and me both. Could have saved us a lot of trouble, that. I know it wasn’t possible but I can’t help but wish...”

“Me too,” Sherlock assured him. “Always, John.”

They looked at each other for a moment before John jerked his chin towards the bed. “Come on. Take your shirt off.”


	18. Chapter 18

John watched the flicker of hesitation cross Sherlock’s features, a quickly suppressed flare of fear in those eyes, and felt sick all over again at the thought of what had been done to him. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed something was wrong sooner. If Sherlock, someone who had always been prone to lounging about the flat in a sheet and nothing else, suddenly walked around buttoned up at all times, that should raise a red flag or five.

Even as John thought it and opened his mouth to say something along the lines of “You don’t have to-”, Sherlock had already started undoing the buttons of his shirt, starting with the cuffs before working his way down his chest. John watched as more and more pale skin was revealed to his gaze and it occurred to him that perhaps this had not been the most sensible idea he had ever had.

‘ _You’re constructing intricate rituals to touch the skin of other men’_ he thought to himself, rather despairingly.

And then Sherlock took off his shirt, glanced down at his trousers and undid those as well.

John blinked. “Erm, Sherlock?”

“Don’t want them to get oily,” Sherlock replied and, to John’s private relief, pulled on his ratty old pyjama bottoms. “And if you are half as good at giving massages as I think you are, I’m sure I won’t want to leave this bed when you’re done. So, best to get changed right away.”

“Fair enough” John said and forced himself not to read anything (much) into the fact that Sherlock had said _'leave this bed'_ instead of _'move'_. “I might get on board with that, actually.”

He went and switched off the lights in the rest of the flat while Sherlock disappeared into the bathroom, neither of them drawing attention to it being only nine pm. Far too early for either of them to want to sleep.

When Sherlock returned, he brought one of the large bath towels with him and spread it on the bed, another precaution against getting oil on his sheets that John would not have expected and certainly hadn’t thought of himself. He deposited a smaller towel beside it.

Once he was satisfied that the towels was arranged to his liking, Sherlock stretched out on the larger one, turning his head to the side so he could look at John. “Ready when you are.”

That look, out of the corner of his eye and with a barely-there teasing glint in it, went straight to John’s core. Definitely not his brightest idea.

He moved to sit on the edge of the bed next to Sherlock and uncapped the bottle, pouring some of the oil into his hand and carefully warming it to skin temperature.

In the bright light of the ceiling lamp, the scars on Sherlock’s back were much more visible than they had been when John had first seen them. On the positive side, they looked a little less horrifying. The small lamp on the nightstand he had used at the time threw odd shadows and had made some of the scars look worse than they were. It didn’t make the current view much better, though.

“John?” Sherlock asked softly and he gave a slight start, realising he had been staring at Sherlock’s back in silence for several minutes.

“Yeah, sorry. They actually look a bit better than they did the other night. Must be the light. Make a note for your spreadsheet to always keep the ceiling lamp on for this.”

“Noted,” Sherlock said, a pleased curl to his voice that made John smile.

“Tell me if something doesn’t feel good,” John instructed and finally put his slick hands on Sherlock’s bare back.

Sherlock did jump a little at the contact but relaxed again almost immediately and John’s first thought was _‘God, he’s warm’_. Was this why Sherlock never seemed to wear jumpers? Was he just constantly running hot?

He stroked all the way from Sherlock’s shoulders down to the waistband of his pyjamas and back up again, mapping out areas of tension and taking mental notes of which scars felt rougher than the others or looked like they might restrict Sherlock’s range of movement if the skin there tightened further.

It wasn’t too bad, John thought, and whatever doctor Mycroft had gotten to stitch Sherlock back up had done a very good job, all things considered.

He started massaging the oil into Sherlock’s skin in earnest and felt him melt into the mattress beneath his touch.

Sherlock let out a soft moan as John’s thumb dug into his left supraspinatus. “Good?” John asked, smiling.

“Brilliant,” Sherlock confirmed. John could see the tension seeping from him with each stroke, felt his muscles loosen and his body turn pliant, his back glistening from the oil. It didn’t smell half bad, either, and John had to remind himself that this particular type of massage oil wasn’t meant for human consumption. The urge to lean forward and just lick a stripe up that long spine wasn’t something he should let get out of hand.

Not that Sherlock would mind, probably. John wasn’t kidding himself. He was quite aware of how much restraint Sherlock exercised at any given moment by not reaching out, by not opening his mouth and asking for what he wanted. He hoped Sherlock was equally aware that all his hesitation was focused on the issue of ‘too soon’. That, and nothing else.

Getting his hands on Sherlock’s body seemed essential in a way he couldn’t quite keep buried and this was the best solution he had been able to come up with - a combination of satisfying his need to touch and doing something nice for Sherlock, something that would actually make him feel better. And John had to admit it made him feel better, too, to be able to do something against these scars, to at least help with the healing if he hadn’t been there to patch them up or prevent them from ever being caused in the first place.

Sherlock moaned again, ending in something that was almost a growl as John dug his fingers into his tense shoulders with a bit more force. John couldn’t help it - the sound went straight to his cock.

He drew a sharp breath and kept going, hoping Sherlock would ascribe it to the exertion.

“ _Uhnnn_ , have you ever considered a career as a massage therapist?” Sherlock asked as John worked his way down his spine. His voice sounded a bit slurred and drowsy.

John smiled. “No. Are you saying I should?”

“God, no,” Sherlock muttered. “I refuse to share you.”

John laughed and patted his back. “Fair enough. Here, stay like this for a couple of minutes until you can move again. And don’t even think about falling asleep now. This is a mutual experiment, remember?”

Sherlock opened his eyes and smiled lazily. “How could I forget?”

God, his voice, all warm and husky and at least one octave deeper than it usually was. John wanted to listen to Sherlock talking forever.

With a low groan, Sherlock rolled over onto his back and sat up. “If you plan on doing that every day for a couple of weeks, I may just float everywhere from now on.”

John smirked. “We’ll see how you feel about it once you’re the one trying to wrangle my shoulder into submission.”

Sherlock gave him a look. “I assure you, there will be no wrangling. I prefer to think of it as ... coaxing.”

“Hmm, good luck with that,” John told him and unbuttoned his shirt. “I won’t be getting in your way.”

“Won’t you?” Sherlock murmured and then looked like he desperately wanted to take the question back.

John blinked, ran through the conversation again and realised a bit belatedly that they had been speaking in subtext again.

“No,” he said, making sure to look Sherlock square in the eye. “I won’t.”

*****

Any hint of tiredness Sherlock felt dissipated from his system the moment John started to unbutton his shirt. Their loaded conversation didn’t help, nor did the look of utter conviction in John’s eyes when he replied to his question. Sherlock knew that look, knew that tone and the set of his shoulders. This was Captain John Watson speaking and he had made a decision he would see executed no matter what.

It sent a shiver down his spine, that knowledge.

To get a grip on himself, he reached for the bottle of oil John had placed on the nightstand and poured some into his hands. “I think you should just take my place. There’s no point in pulling the towel back and forth.”

He stood even as he spoke, then looked at John and corrected himself. “Actually, you should sit up.”

There wasn’t much to see at the front - just a small, puckered scar where the bullet had gone in. But Sherlock knew the exit wound would look far nastier. He would need to work with the muscle groups on either side of John’s clavicle, which meant that John lying on his front would not be beneficial.

John, of course, caught on immediately. “Right. How’s that?”

He sat cross-legged with his back to the edge of the bed, at the perfect height for Sherlock to stand behind him and reach his shoulder without having to bend down. Sherlock would have preferred to sit behind him but was secretly glad he wouldn’t be. The temptation to simply wrap himself around John would be too strong.

“Perfect,” he said, rubbed his oily hands together and then carefully placed them on John’s shoulders. It hit him then that he had never seen so much of John’s skin exposed for longer than a glimpse and that he had certainly never had permission to touch it before.

The exit wound was a mess and looked as if it had been infected before it had finally healed. The skin was gnarly and still held a tinge of red that should have faded years ago.

“Not pretty, is it?” John murmured, clearly noticing what had caught Sherlock’s attention.

Sherlock shrugged. “John, you have seen my back. I’m hardly in a position to judge. But this...” he stroked his thumb across the scar “... this brought you to me.”

He wouldn’t have dared say any such thing even half an hour ago. But half an hour ago John hadn’t yet made it perfectly clear that he intended to pursue whatever was between them. It was an odd concept to try and wrap his head around, like being told that Father Christmas was real after all and that you were on the _Nice_ list.

John laughed lightly. “Well if that’s how it is, then yours brought you back to me.”

Sherlock squeezed his shoulders in reply but couldn’t find any words that suited him, so he simply began to massage John’s shoulders in earnest, making sure to pay equal attention to both. His right shoulder had been compensating for the injured one for years and still did on occasion and the muscles were hard with tension.

Within minutes, John’s head was lolling forward and he moaned as Sherlock dug in, pressing down on a particularly tense knot.

“God, your hands,” John murmured. “How do you do that?”

Sherlock smiled to himself. “Countless hours of playing the violin,” he said. “Makes for strong hands, though you wouldn’t think it. The rest is just observation and passable knowledge of the human body.”

John snorted. “Passable, right.”

"Well, there's always room for improvement," Sherlock murmured and promptly bit his lip. He hadn't meant to say that out loud.

Luckily, John seemed too distracted to have noticed. He moaned again, his head tipping backward as Sherlock found another spot of tension. “Ugh, god, Sherlock.”

Sherlock forced himself to breathe normally, to not bend forward, grasp John’s jaw and press their mouths together. He was sure John hadn’t meant to sound quite so ecstatic but the impact of the noises he made stayed the same. Sherlock knew deep down that if he said something now or gave in to the urge to kiss John, they’d fall into bed right then and there. He also knew it was too soon. As much as he wanted it, he still didn’t fully trust that he might actually get to keep John. He didn’t want there to be any doubt, least of all in his own mind.

But oh, the temptation was strong. He kept his hands firmly on John’s shoulders, forced his mind to focus on nothing but the task at hand and still felt his thoughts attempting to drift. Next time, he would insist on doing John’s shoulder first, before John laid his hands on him, or all that beautiful relaxation would be replaced with new tension in a matter of minutes.

When he had finally coaxed the last of John’s shoulder muscles into submission, his hands were aching and John was swaying where he sat, his eyes closed and head drooping forward.

“Ugh, I should have gotten changed right away,” John mumbled. “I don’t think I can get up.”

Sherlock smirked and, without thinking, said: “It’s 25°C, John, I’m sure you can survive sleeping without a pyjama.”

John blinked at him. “Yeah. You’re right. It is too hot to bother. Good of you to mention that.”

He shuffled across the bed to his half of the mattress, wiped the excess oil from his skin with the small towel and then simply peeled his trousers off before burying into the cushions. His eyes were closed before his head touched the pillow.

He was wearing boxers and that was all that stopped Sherlock from combusting on the spot. He gaped at John for a bit, mesmerised by the sight of so much of his skin, the contours of his body displayed perfectly for Sherlock’s enjoyment.

After several long minutes, Sherlock managed to grab the discarded towels, wiped the remnants of oil from his own hands and back and decided that if John wasn’t sleeping in a t-shirt, he certainly wouldn’t bother with one. It was hot outside. It was hot inside, too, and Sherlock wished he could open the window to lure an elusive breeze into the room and help cool them down. But the spectre of the press stuck to the edge of his thoughts and he couldn't bring himself to risk it.

He retreated to the bathroom, used the loo and brushed his teeth and chucked the now rather oily smaller towel into the laundry basket. The other would be fine for another use so he had left it on the floor beside the bed.

He met his own gaze in the mirror and admitted to himself that he was stalling, so he returned to his room and climbed into bed next to an already asleep John, trying not to think about how much exposed skin there was between the two of them.

He didn’t entirely succeed.

*****

John woke early the next morning because he was shaking.

For a couple of dazed seconds, he thought he was experiencing a mild earthquake before he remembered that London didn’t have earthquakes. From there it was only a small step to realising the source of the shaking was Sherlock, who lay with his back to him and was caught in yet another nightmare.

Why it had come now, of all nights, John didn’t know but he also wasn’t too surprised. Hadn't they only recently talked about how unpredictable dreams were?

Of course, the idle thought was merely a distraction from the fact that he could feel Sherlock shaking because for some reason he was plastered against his back, his arms wrapped around Sherlock’s torso and his face pressed to the back of his neck.

‘ _I must have moved at some point in the night’_ John thought dazedly, stroking his left hand over Sherlock’s forearm and noticing a bit belatedly that Sherlock had apparently decided not to wear a t-shirt to sleep. Oh. Well.

Sherlock whimpered in his sleep and another shudder ran through his body. The sound alone was enough to tear at John’s heart.

“Sherlock? Sherlock, can you hear me?”

He tightened his arms a little, hoping Sherlock would feel it. “It’s me, John. You’re all right. Come on, wake up.”

Sherlock whimpered again and the sound morphed into a moan halfway through. His skin felt very hot.

“Sherlock,” John tried again.

This time, he got a reaction.

“Mmmh, Jooohhnnn,” Sherlock mumbled. It didn’t sound very distressed. Quite the contrary, actually.

‘ _Oh’_ John thought. _‘Not a nightmare, then.’_

Sherlock shuddered again and John felt his entire body flush with heat in response.

They were pressed together, chest to back, skin against skin and John felt dizzy as more of his blood rushed south to pool between his legs. It didn’t help that Sherlock moaned again and pressed back against him.

For the longest moment, John had no idea what to do. Ignore it? Not possible. Sherlock was too tightly wound for this to end in anything but disaster if John tried to pretend it wasn’t happening. And if Sherlock were to wake up now ...

The thought shook him into action.

“Shhh,” John murmured, switching gears. If Sherlock woke up, he wanted, _needed_ him to know he was safe. _‘It’s all fine.’_

“Shhh, Sherlock. It’s all right, it’s okay. I’m right here with you.” He let go of Sherlock’s forearm and moved his hand up to splay across Sherlock’s bare chest instead, rubbing gently. “It’s okay.”

Sherlock jerked, a different kind of shudder running through him, and let out an involuntary gasp. John could feel the tension in his body increase as he finally woke and became fully aware of his surroundings.

“Shhh,” John said again, softly, continuing the lazy movement of his hand across Sherlock’s chest. “It’s all right. I’ve got you. It’s okay.”

He shifted ever so slightly, just enough to make Sherlock aware of John’s unmistakable erection pressed against his arse, a wordless reassurance that John was in the same boat as him.

“Johhh-”

God, that voice, deep and so wrecked he couldn’t even get out his name in full. There was a question somewhere in that half-shaped moniker.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I know.”

He shifted his hand a little, let his fingers brush over one of Sherlock’s nipples and heard him draw in a sharp breath. “This all right?”

“I ... John...” It was almost a whimper and John took it as all the encouragement he could possibly need. He let his other hand trail down Sherlock’s chest and stomach, felt his body quiver under his touch. “May I?”

Sherlock froze for several long seconds and then all but curled in on himself and groaned. It effectively pressed him further against John as his body curved.

John let his fingers tease at the waistband of Sherlock’s pyjamas. “Yes?”

He could almost feel Sherlock wrestling with himself, trying to decide, and so John remained frozen as he waited for his response. The offer had been made and now he would wait and see if Sherlock was going to accept it.

“Oh, god yes,” Sherlock gasped. “ _Please._ ”

That was all John needed to hear. He shoved his hand down the front of Sherlock’s pyjama trousers and past the waistband of his pants, pushing the fabric aside. He felt Sherlock’s hand scrabbling at his, helping him push the clothes away.

This wasn’t going to take long and they both knew it. John wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s cock and they both groaned at the sensation of his fingers closing around hot, hard flesh.

Sherlock made a noise that was almost a sob and tried to thrust into John’s hand as much as their position would allow.

“Brilliant,” John murmured in his ear and smeared his mouth across the curve of Sherlock’s shoulder blade, unable to deny himself the taste of his skin any longer. “God, Sherlock.”

He spared a fleeting thought for the oil on the nightstand, wondering if they should risk using it but then his questing fingers found the tip of Sherlock’s erection and the problem solved itself. He was leaking copiously, must have been painfully aroused for quite some time now and John smeared his hand liberally without hesitation, revelling in Sherlock’s choked gasp as he tightened his grip once more and set up a sharp, steady rhythm.

Sherlock gasped and moaned again, shaking in John’s arms. “John-”

“I’ve got you,” John murmured to him, pressing his lips to one scarred shoulder, just above the end of the longest whip mark. “I’ve got you.”

He twisted his hand even as he spoke and Sherlock came with a shout, the sound half muffled by his pillow as he fell apart under John’s touch.

John stroked him through it, trying to find the delicate balance between just enough and too much until Sherlock’s shaking subsided and he was left panting for air.

Patting his chest in reassurance, John fumbled around for the large towel they had discarded last night and wiped his hand on it before wrapping his arms around Sherlock again. He would be damned if he let go of him now.

After several long moments Sherlock spoke. “I feel I should apologise,” he murmured. “But I can’t seem to remember what for.”

John laughed into his shoulder. “Hell if I know.”

“Mmph,” Sherlock made, reaching for the towel John had carelessly dropped over his own legs and giving himself a perfunctory wipe before pulling his pants and pyjama bottoms back up. He shifted as he did so and they were both reminded of John’s own erection.

Sherlock hummed and arched against him in a clearly deliberate move before starting to turn around. “Let me?”

“Yes,” John breathed, tugging at Sherlock’s shoulder even as he realised they hadn’t looked each other in the eye even once since they had awoken like this. The room was certainly bright enough to see each other clearly.

For a moment, he feared it would bring reality crashing back around them but then Sherlock’s gaze met his, his eyes wide and dark with desire and John promptly forgot what he had been worried about.

Sherlock stared at him as if he was a mirage even as he trailed one hand down John’s chest, leaving a trail of goosebumps in his wake.

Their gazes locked and held, hot breath ghosting across each other’s faces as Sherlock slid his hand beneath the waistband of John’s boxers. They both moaned as he wrapped his long fingers around John’s hardness and John watched Sherlock’s eyelids flutter shut for a moment before he snapped them open again, his gaze burning.

“You’re magnificent,” Sherlock murmured, setting up a slow, teasing rhythm that made John’s toes curl.

John stared back at him, breathless with his own want and the desire he saw in Sherlock’s eyes.

“I never thought I’d get to touch you,” Sherlock said softly, rubbing his thumb around the tip of John’s cock as slowly as he possibly could. “I never thought you’d let me.”

John moaned, arching into Sherlock’s touch. This slow teasing was so far from what he needed and yet somehow exactly what he wanted and he could do nothing but stare back at Sherlock and let his words wash over him.

He tried to phrase a reply and finally managed: “I never knew you wanted to.”

Sherlock laughed, a soft, barely-there sound. “Mmmh, I’ve always been good at pretending. A bit too good, it appears.”

A moment later, his expression turned more serious. “But not anymore. I’m done pretending.”

John groaned and thrust into Sherlock’s hand again. “Sh-Sherlock.”

Sherlock moved his head then, breaking their gaze and bringing his mouth close to John’s ear, his voice a low rumble that went straight down John’s spine. “I want you in my mouth. I can almost taste you even now.”

John whimpered but Sherlock wasn’t done, whispering filthy secrets in his ear as he continued the torturously slow movement of his hand. “I deduced you years ago. The way you walk, the way you sit and stand. I always knew you were big. _Perrrfect_.” The last word was a purr. “I’ve wanted you in my mouth for so long, John, you can’t possibly imagine.”

John squeezed his eyes shut but it did nothing to stop the picture Sherlock was painting in his head with his voice alone, a vivid fantasy burning itself into his mind.

Sherlock’s voice turned even lower, his hand speeding up a little and his grip tightening ever so slightly. “I know we’re not ready, neither of us is. But we will be, soon. And when we are-” he paused to nip at John’s earlobe, making him gasp “-when we are, I want you to fuck me.”

“Oh, fuck, Sherlock,” John groaned and came, ecstasy flooding his body in a slow, pulsing wave.

Sherlock kept touching him, murmuring wordless encouragements into his ear until John sagged against him, breathless and spent.

They stared at each other for several long moments, finally acknowledging this thing between them and staring it right in the face. John felt as if they were finally on the same page. No words were needed.

Sherlock looked away first, sitting up and saying as nonchalantly as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened at all: “I’m having a shower and then I’m going back to Barts. Molly made me go home before we were done with all our experiments but she promised we could continue today.”

John watched him disappear into the bathroom and groaned, throwing his arm across his eyes. “Oh, god.”

His heartbeat hadn’t fully calmed down yet and Sherlock’s words lingered in his mind, a promise and a request in one. He wanted both.

But Sherlock was right - they weren’t ready. Not yet, not fully. This ... they had needed this, had needed the release, the acknowledgement of all this tension between them. But tension was not enough to build a relationship on, wasn’t a strong enough foundation.

They both wanted more than that, deserved more than that, really.

John licked his lips, realising belatedly that at no point in all this had they kissed. To an outsider, it may seem odd, like a missed step in a dance, but John thought it was just right. There was time for that later. When they were both ready, when they both trusted this thing between them enough to let all that potential unfold, he would kiss Sherlock for hours.

He smiled to himself, listening to the shower being turned on in the bathroom. He couldn’t wait.


	19. Chapter 19

Sherlock was well aware that his decision to spend time at Barts could be seen as fleeing the scene. In a way, it was.

He had been here for over five hours now, barely saying a word to Molly the entire time, and he still hadn’t quite managed to wrap his head around what had happened this morning. He had never thought to end up having this, any of it.

He certainly hadn’t expected to wake up shaking with want in John’s arms and find John almost begging to be allowed to touch him.

Sherlock released a shaky breath, suddenly glad to have left the house today. Being around John right now would be dangerous. They had both acknowledged there was something there, had both admitted in not so many words to the desire they both felt. His face heated just remembering the words he had whispered in John’s ear, a confession he had been sitting on for so many years he had almost given up hope of ever giving it voice.

Blinking, Sherlock realised he had been staring into the microscope for at least a quarter of an hour without any idea what he was looking at. He groaned and let his head thunk gently onto the table.

“You all right?” Molly asked.

She had been in and out of the lab all morning in between autopsies. One look at his face when he arrived had been enough for her to leave him be, except for the occasional cup of tea nudged in his direction.

“Fine,” Sherlock mumbled, not lifting his head.

“You don’t seem fine,” Molly told him and that was definitely concern in her voice. “You look a bit ... well, like you’ve seen a ghost, actually.”

“Not quite,” Sherlock said.

She mulled that over for a bit. “Something happened, didn’t it? With you and John.”

He frowned and lifted his head. “What makes you think that?”

Molly gave him a look. “No one else manages to put that look on your face,” she pointed out. “And you’ve been hiding in here all morning without actually doing anything.”

“I’ve been looking at the samples we collected yeste-” Sherlock began, uncomfortable with being called out in such a manner.

“And you should have been finished with those two hours ago if you were actually paying attention,” she interrupted him. “You wouldn’t be hiding in here unless you were trying to avoid John. Therefore, something must have happened.”

Sherlock wordlessly lowered his head back onto the table.

“That bad?”

He shook his head, then flinched as she patted his back. “It’ll be fine,” she promised. “You just wait and see.”

It was then that Sherlock’s phone blew up with half a dozen text messages.

*****

Mrs Hudson was the first of the inhabitants of 221b to hear the news. Quite literally. She was doing the washing up with the radio tuned into her favourite rock station when the 12 o’clock news came on.

She was only listening with one ear because, as she liked to tell Mrs Turner, no one could pay full attention to the news without wanting to go on a bloody rampage, so it took a couple of seconds for the words to actually register.

“ _...woman shot dead at her own wedding has now been revealed to have been an internationally wanted assassin. Unnamed sources have confirmed that the luckless bride may not in fact be as innocent as her white gown would have you believe, with supposedly dozens of confirmed and suspected kills on her record.”_

Mrs Hudson, soapy hands and all, turned up the volume and spent the next two minutes listening with rapt attention. Once the speaker moved on to the next issue, she dried her hands and took herself upstairs, the remaining dishes quite forgotten.

*****

John had spent the morning tidying the flat, for lack of anything else to do. The sheets needed a washing, so he had put on a machine of laundry and tried not to think too hard about how that had become necessary. He remade the bed, accidentally caught sight of the massage oil and had to sit down for a good ten minutes once he realised that he had dug his own grave with that one. They’d be doing this again tonight. And ... whatever else they might end up doing, too.

‘ _We’re not ready yet’_ Sherlock had murmured in his ear but he had also said _‘Soon’_ and John wondered how much time that left them with. His heart beat harder in his chest and a shiver of anticipation ran down his spine.

“John?” Mrs Hudson called. “John, are you home?”

“I’m here!,” he called back and went out to meet her in the sitting room. One look at her face made him freeze as fear gripped him in a tight fist. “What happened? Is Sherlock-”

“Sherlock is fine, dear,” she said quickly and John sank into his armchair, his legs shaking. “Oh, thank god. Then what is it?”

“It’s on the news,” Mrs Hudson told him. “They found out about Mary.”

John stared at her, unable to drag up any sort of emotional response to this information. “What?”

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He took it out and glanced at the screen. It was a text from Lestrade.

‘ _They know. I don’t know how they found out. Will keep you posted.’_

John frowned. “Three guesses who’s behind this,” he muttered. “Lestrade says he doesn’t know how they found out.”

Mrs Hudson sat down in Sherlock’s armchair. “He’s a good man, that Detective Inspector Lestrade. He wouldn’t talk to the media.”

“No, he wouldn’t,” John agreed, composing the first in a series of text messages to Sherlock. “Someone else at the Yard might have but we both know there’s someone else who is more likely to control the media at his every whim.”

He stared down at this phone. “Come on, Sherlock. Answer me.”

As if he had heard him, Sherlock’s reply popped up on his screen.  _‘I’m on my way. Don’t leave the house or let anyone in. If the phone rings, let it. SH’_

“Sherlock says he’s coming home and we should stay put and not talk to anyone,” John told their landlady.

She smiled and stood. “I’ll make us a cuppa, then. Do you have any mugs I can safely pour tea into?”

“An entire shelf full, Mrs H,” John said. “Right above the kettle.”

He put his phone on mute. Downstairs, the landline started to ring.

“Oh, I really need to talk to Mycroft about getting this number unlisted,” Mrs Hudson said. “How did these people find it so quickly?”

“They probably had it for ages just in case something happened,” John sighed. “I bet Mycroft kept them from calling these past few weeks but clearly they’ve decided this story is now more important than he could possibly be.”

“Well, they’re in for a surprise, then.” Mrs Hudson poured milk into two mugs and handed one to John. “There you are, love.”

John accepted the tea with a muttered thanks, distracted with trying to figure out if the media knowing was a good thing or not. On the plus side, he would no longer have to keep up the act of a grieving widower. On the downside, people would now wonder for how long he had known, if he had knowingly harboured an assassin or if he had been duped by one. Neither option cast him in a good light but he would rather be thought of as someone who had been duped than an accessory. It was the truth, for one thing.

‘ _And no one will call me fickle if they find out about me and Sherlock’_ he thought and then hated himself for thinking it. They hadn’t spoken about it, hadn’t actually discussed or agreed on anything. He didn’t want to rush them into something, even knowing that this morning had certainly been rather rushed and unplanned. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to regret it.

Sherlock burst into the room twenty minutes later, looking rather dishevelled. 

“They’re already at our front door,” he reported. “Blasted vultures. I went round the back and came in through the back door. No one saw me.”

John nodded and wiped a drop of sweat from his forehead. While they had waited for Sherlock to return, Mrs Hudson had closed the windows and pulled the heavy curtains shut so no one could take pictures of the inside of the flat. It turned the sitting room stifling, trapping the summer heat inside. Sherlock popped the top two buttons of his light linen shirt and lowered himself onto the armrest of John’s chair.

“What do we know?”

“I was listening to the 12 o’clock news on the radio and they broke the story,” Mrs Hudson told him. “They said they had an unnamed source but wouldn’t go into details. They didn’t call her by her name, either, just mentioned the “bride shot at her own wedding” and then went on to say she had a record of at least a dozen confirmed kills. I don’t know where they got that bit from.”

“Oh, I think we all know where,” Sherlock murmured. “My dear brother has been suspiciously quiet.”

“You think it’s him, too?” John asked, relieved to know he wasn’t alone in his suspicions.

Sherlock shrugged. “Who else? I can’t even fault him for it, much as I’m loathe to admit it. The press knowing about Mary may hinder the investigation into her death but it is very beneficial for us. You can drop the pretence of being a grieving fiance and any speculations about either of us killing her to get her out of the way of our-” he hesitated for a second before ploughing on “-our relationship will have to admit we have a far better motive than that. In fact, we may be able to spin the story to our advantage. They will question why I didn’t know or if I did and left you in the dark or if we both knew and lured her into a trap. If we are lucky, we can make the public at large believe that she was killed during an operation meant to result in her arrest. It will make her murderer relax a little and hopefully allow Mycroft’s people and the Yard to catch them unawares.”

John stared at him. “You ... have given this some thought.”

Sherlock lowered his head. “I have been considering the pros and cons of going public for several days now. I knew the story would break eventually and so did Mycroft. I suppose he chose to let it leak so we could control the resulting media circus. A bit of a warning would not have gone amiss,” he added sharply, turning his gaze to the door.

Mycroft stepped into their sitting room and inclined his head. “My apologies.”

“The words would be more believable if you actually meant them,” John snapped at him. “I only saw you yesterday, you could have said something at any point.”

Sherlock watched his brother with narrowed eyes. “Ah,” he said softly. “You didn’t know.”

John blinked. “What?”

“Yesterday morning, Mycroft did not know he would be leaking the news today,” Sherlock said. “Isn’t that right, Mycroft?” He didn’t wait for his brother to reply, turning to John instead. “Something you said during your conversation must have convinced him that going public was our best option.”

John didn’t have to think twice to have a pretty good idea of what it was that had led to Mycroft’s decision. He wished he had kept his mouth shut. But then... would it really be so bad?

“You think this is in our best interests?” he demanded, glaring at the older Holmes brother.

Mycroft twirled his umbrella. He did not appear dishevelled at all, John noted, which made him wonder how Mycroft had managed to get past all the reporters outside their front door without causing a scene. Quite frankly, the idea of Mycroft using a back entrance to anything was a stretch of the imagination.

“I believe there may be some advantages to the current situation, yes,” he confirmed. “In the long-term, this will play out in our favour.” He made a face. “In the short term, it means keeping the media at bay and steering the conversation. As Sherlock already said, we are trying to make it appear like a long-term operation that went wrong and regrettably led to the death of our target.”

John crossed his arms. “ _We_ are not doing anything,” he said firmly. “ _You_ are. You decided to set these reporters on our heels, you’ll be the one to get rid of them.”

He felt Sherlock sit up straight next to him, felt the shiver running through him, though he couldn’t tell what had caused it. Perhaps it was Mycroft’s icy stare.

When Sherlock spoke, his voice was almost a purr. “You heard the man, brother. Time to get to work.”

Mycroft turned and left without a word, which was probably all the concession they were going to get. John didn’t care.

“Well,” Mrs Hudson said, clapping her hands. “I’ll leave you boys to discuss what you’re going to do next. And I’ll make sure the back door is locked in case any of these people out there get it in their heads to come round the back.”

Sherlock grinned. “They could camp out there for a week if they like. I know for a fact that there’s a hatch connecting our attic to that of Mrs Turner’s place next door and there’s a lovely tall garden wall separating the two properties. They’ll never see us leave.”

Mrs Hudson shushed him. “My dear boy, that hatch is supposed to be a secret!”

He raised an eyebrow at her. “What, from me? Oh please. I found it two days after moving in.”

She was still shaking her head and muttering to herself about nosey busy-bodies as she left.

*****

With Mrs Hudson gone and the door closed behind her, the flat was very quiet. The silence turned heavy as Sherlock and John both realised it was the first time they had been alone together since that morning.

John cleared his throat and Sherlock shifted, ready to jump up from the armrest of John’s chair and disappear under the guise of needing something from the kitchen. A glass of water perhaps. It was awfully hot in here and his throat felt far too dry.

“Don’t,” John said softly.

“What?”

“Whatever you’re thinking, don’t.”

Sherlock made himself relax again, leaning against the back of the chair. “Well I was thinking of getting some water...”

It wasn’t a complete lie but John still raised his eyebrows at him. Sherlock decided to give in gracefully. “What will you have me do instead, then?”

John paused, clearly not having thought that far ahead. It was rather gratifying, Sherlock thought. “Uh ... how was your day?”

“Good,” Sherlock muttered, not quite managing to meet his eyes. “Stared into a microscope for four hours, couldn’t tell you a thing I saw through it. Molly accused me of hiding out in the lab. I think if I show my face there anytime within the next week, she will drag me out by the ear and personally put me in a cab back home.”

John chuckled. “She’s been done with your bullshit ever since you came back. I’m not surprised she’s ready to call you out on it these days.”

Sherlock hummed his agreement and slid forward on the armrest until he was sitting barely on the edge of it, his head lolling against the back of John’s chair. He watched as John’s gaze wandered up his body towards his face, watched in which places it lingered and had a teasing smile at the ready when John finally got to his mouth.

“See something you like?”

Even twenty-four hours ago, he wouldn’t have dared to be so bold, wouldn’t have even considered it. But now ... 

He watched John’s eyes blaze even as he smiled in return. “A thing or two,” John murmured, that same teasing glint in his eye that Sherlock knew he would see in a mirror if he had one at hand right now.

But John got serious quite quickly, clearing his throat. He kept his gaze on Sherlock's, though, and Sherlock took heart from that.

“Sherlock, what ... what are we doing?”

“Having a long overdue conversation, I believe,” Sherlock replied, trying to sound as nonchalant as he could. “And trying not to melt in this disagreeable heat.”

John snorted. “Be serious. It’s hardly hot. A bit warm and stifling, yeah, but not hot.”

“Not compared to the Afghan desert, I’m sure,” Sherlock agreed. “But by British standards, it is hot. And we can’t all have been deployed into an oven.”

That earned him a chuckle. “Hm, true.”

“We’re doing it again,” Sherlock murmured and finally broke their gaze. “Deflecting. Every time we’re about to have a serious conversation, we allow ourselves to back out with a joke.” He paused, licked his lips. “John, I ... I need you to understand that this-” he waved his hand a little to indicate this thing between them “-this is not a joke to me.”

He heard John breathe in, ready to respond, and kept talking because he wasn’t quite done yet. “And if you don’t ... if ...” He couldn’t make himself say it. “If you  _don’t_ then ... I need you to tell me now. Before I-”

A finger on his lips made him fall silent and he froze, staring down at John who was looking back at him with the most serious expression Sherlock had ever seen on his face.

“It’s not a joke to me, either,” John told him quietly. “I won’t pretend not to know what this is because I think we both have a fairly good idea. In fact, I’m _sure_ you do. But we’ve got time, yeah? We can get used to this. I want us to get used to this. I want you to be sure-”

“I am,” Sherlock interrupted, his heart high in his chest, but John shook his head.

“No. I mean I want you to be sure that _I’m_ sure. A little over two weeks ago I was about to marry someone who most definitely wasn’t you. And I need you to know that, of all the mistakes I’ve made, I’m glad this is one I never got around to. And I want you to be absolutely sure that we are here because we both want to be, need to be, and not just because you happen to be the closest warm body available.”

Sherlock stared at him, mouth dry and heart racing. This was ... he had been waiting to hear these words or a variation of them. For John to acknowledge this ... 

He swallowed, reached for John’s hand and pressed it to his cheek. “You can have all the time in the world if you don’t make me wait too long, John.”

And, feeling John’s fingers gently brush against his temple, he added: “But if you think that will get you out of the massage you promised me, I suggest you think again.”

They were both silent for a long moment and then they began to laugh.


	20. Chapter 20

Sherlock did get his massage, though he insisted on working on John’s shoulder first this time. It was as if the weight of the world had been lifted off his own shoulders. They were finally, finally, on the same page, knowing precisely where they stood with one another. Coupled with the remembered intimacy from this morning, it lent a new meaning to every touch he bestowed on John’s skin, every dig of his thumbs and roll of his palms against stubborn muscle, every soft moan from John’s mouth.

It took a lot of restraint to keep his hands on John’s shoulders, to not move closer to him, to not lean forward until he could put his mouth to John’s earlobe and murmur teasing little promises into his warm skin. 

Not yet, not quite, though neither of them pretended to be unaffected.

When he lay down on the rough towel, he had to shift several times to find a comfortable position and even so he couldn’t help the shiver that ran down his spine as John’s well-oiled hands stroked down his bare back and began to knead the tight muscles there, massaging the oil into his scarred skin.

He thought about the possibility of this continuing for another two months or so until they could really see the results and another shudder racked his body.

“All right?” John asked, his hands pausing.

“Fine,” Sherlock murmured. “I was just thinking that another month or two of this might kill me.”

John chuckled and his hands resumed their movement. “Are you saying this is a test of our self-control?”

The suggestion made Sherlock bark a laugh. “Bold of you to assume I have any such thing when it comes to you.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” John said softly. “You always seemed plenty controlled to me.”

Sherlock snorted. “I was paranoid about how you would react,” he admitted. “It wasn’t really a question of self-restraint but of self-doubt.”

“Sounds more like you were doubting me,” John pointed out.

Sherlock shook his head. “The only thing I ever doubted was my ability to make you stay.”

John was silent for a long time and Sherlock let himself be distracted by John’s warm hands on his skin and the blissful feeling of his muscles slowly relaxing. Clearly being bent over the microscope all morning hadn’t done him any good.

He was close to drifting off when John finally spoke again. “I can’t fault you for that,” he said, voice quiet and oddly pained. “And I don’t know how I ever managed to give you that impression when all I ever wanted was to have you here with me. Sometimes I think I don’t know myself very well.”

Sherlock shrugged. “It’s not your fault.”

“Isn’t it?”

The doubt in John’s voice was painful to hear. “No. You were raised during the Thatcher years, John. You had that hatred and that shame instilled in you by everyone from your parents to the media. You witnessed your parents turn your sister away for being a lesbian. How could you be anything but terrified to find yourself attracted to another man?”

John swallowed audibly. “That’s ... when you put it like that...”

Sherlock smiled sadly. “We are a product of our environment, John. We don’t have to let it define us but it takes a conscious effort to shake off these effects. I know why denial came so easily to you, I have always known. I won’t claim that it made it any easier to hear, but I knew it was born of deeply instilled internalised homophobia. Perhaps if Moriarty hadn’t ... if I hadn’t ... left ...” He broke off and tried again. “I thought we were onto something. I thought we had a chance. But then I had to leave and when I came back there was Mary. It made me wonder if what I thought I had seen was just wishful thinking.”

Oh, it had hurt. He couldn’t possibly describe how much it had hurt to come home to find all his hopes being ground to dust before his very eyes. But given the choice, he would still do it all over again if only to keep John safe. He had accomplished that much at least. For the longest time, he had told himself that was enough.

*****

John heard the strain in Sherlock’s voice, a sort of pain he had never experienced for himself and hoped to never inflict again, accidental though it had been.

He wiped his hands on the second towel he had laid out and then used it to wipe down Sherlock’s back. Only then did he climb onto what had become his side of the bed.

“Come here.”

Sherlock did, shoving the other towel away and rolling over until they met in the middle of the mattress and John could wrap his arms around him.

“I’m sorry I ever made you feel that way,” he said softly, heart clenching as Sherlock buried his face in the crook of his neck. “And I promise I will do all that I can to make sure it never happens again.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Sherlock replied and there was a smile in his voice. “But I need you to know that I’ll forgive you even if it happens again. I’m afraid you can’t get rid of me that easily. That ship has sailed, John.”

John’s heartfelt “Thank god” made them both chuckle and tighten their hold on each other a little.

He knew they wouldn’t be able to hold on much longer - it had gotten even warmer and there really was no way they would manage to stay this close all night. But Sherlock made no move to let him go, even though they were both too hot. They had made sure the windows and blinds in both their bedrooms were closed to keep the curious eyes of journalists with their tele lenses out of their flat and unaware of the fact that they were sharing a bed. Unfortunately, the closed windows meant there was even less airflow in the flat and nowhere to go for the heat that had built up during the day.

“I’m almost glad it’s so hot,” Sherlock murmured against John’s clavicle. “Makes behaving myself just a little bit easier.”

John smiled and traced one of the more prominent scars on Sherlock’s back with his index finger. “I’m not sure what sort of response you’re expecting from me here. Obviously you behaving yourself has never been anywhere near my list of priorities.”

He swore he felt Sherlock’s lips on the curve of his shoulder. “Dangerous words indeed, John.”

“You know me,” John said lightly, “you say ‘danger’ and here I am.”  
Sherlock groaned and rolled away, putting a bit of distance between them. “Throwing my own words back at me? Not fair, John. Not fair at all.”

The sudden absence of a half-naked, warm body caused an interesting mix of relief and acute disappointment as John felt himself cool down both literally and metaphorically. He knew he was the one who had said they had time and could go slow and he wanted Sherlock to be sure, but he would be lying if he didn’t admit he also just wanted Sherlock, period.

Even now, Sherlock’s words were at the front of his mind. Was he right? Had growing up during the Thatcher years, with rampant homophobia all around him, affected his view of himself? John found he couldn’t argue the point. He had always considered himself open-minded and forward-thinking. He had supported Harry even as she broke with their parents, had embraced Clara as part of the family from the get-go. But the longer he thought about it, the more obvious it became that he had never extended the same courtesy to himself.

And Sherlock, bless him, had deduced this without ever needing to be told. He had simply known and there had been no hint of accusation in his tone when he had mentioned it earlier. Instead, there had only been a quiet sadness and a hint of underlying anger that was very clearly not directed at John.

Still ... Sherlock deserved better. Better than handing John excuses and reasons. Better than having to listen to his denial and witness his fear. He deserved for John to make him his priority. Because he was, damn it, and John needed him to know that.

He’d show him, he promised himself as he drifted off to sleep. He would make sure Sherlock knew.

*****

The heat still didn't let up for the next three days. On the first day, John attempted to leave the flat to get the groceries. He opened the door, was immediately blinded by a barrage of camera flashes going off and promptly closed the door again. Both John and Sherlock were pleased to find that the images that appeared on the websites of various media outlets were too blurry to make out much more than the fact that John looked exhausted, which even the most zealous journalist couldn't spin into much of a story. An hour after his attempt to leave the house, one of Mycroft's nameless minions arrived with two bags of groceries via Mrs Turner's flat and the no longer secret connecting door.

To stave off boredom, Sherlock started up a new experiment that was best conducted in the cool environment of 221c, not least of all because he had chosen to concoct an effective mould remover. He didn't say it out loud and John didn't comment on it, but they both knew it was mostly an excuse to give them both some space. Cooped up in the flat with nothing to do, things might escalate more quickly than either of them was really comfortable with yet. The tension their nightly massages created was already bad enough without them sitting practically on top of each other all day long.

Since they couldn't open the windows for fear of any reporters spying on them, they were left with no other option than to sit and sweat it out. They both took too many showers (separately) and started to skip tea and toast in favour of cereal and iced coffee.

On the fourth day of this press-enforced quarantine, Sherlock suggested going out.

“If I have to stay cooped up in this house all day again, I’ll go bonkers,” he said simply. “Let’s ask Mrs Hudson to check for journalists and leave. They must have gotten bored by now.”

John, fanning himself with the newspaper instead of reading it, grinned. “Sounds good to me. Where do you want to go?”

“Westfield Shopping Centre,” Sherlock said immediately, managing to surprise him.

“That’s, uh ... not what I expected you would say,” John admitted. “Why there?”

Sherlock shrugged. “It’s massive, so we can spend a lot of time there, and has fantastic air conditioning, so we won’t melt while we’re there. I need some new shirts and I’m sure we could spruce up your closet a bit, too. You have hardly any clothing suitable for this weather that isn’t painfully old.”

“Hey!” John protested, rather half-heartedly.

“Look me in the eye and tell me you have nice summer clothes that aren’t at least five years old,” Sherlock challenged him.

John sighed. “Fine. You win. But I insist on having ice cream once we’re there.”

Sherlock hummed. “I think that can be arranged.”

That settled, John marched down the stairs to ask Mrs Hudson about the reporters as neither he nor Sherlock were particularly keen on being mobbed and didn’t want to betray their intentions by peeking through a gap in the curtains.

“Oh, don’t worry, my dear. I’ll have a look for you,” she said and promptly did. “There are a couple of them milling around outside. I was going to take the rubbish out anyway, let me check the back for you, luv.”

“Thank you, Mrs H.” John kissed her cheek and waited in the safety of the hallway while she went out back to the bins, stopping to chat to Mrs Turner for a bit before returning inside.

“All clear,” she announced. “I think this disagreeable heat is driving them all away. I feel so sorry for you boys, you must be boiling up there. I really should have gotten the place better insulated.”

“Don’t worry about it. We’re going shopping - perhaps I can talk Sherlock into getting an electric fan that he won’t take apart in a moment of boredom,” John reassured her, privately already determined to stop by that fantastic bakery in the shopping centre to get Mrs Hudson a treat. That woman worked far too hard for her age and deserved a bit of pampering.

He returned upstairs, taking the steps two at a time.

“Well?” Sherlock asked.

“Some out front but the back is clear.”

Sherlock grinned. “I’ve always enjoyed sneaking in and out of my own home like a criminal. Let’s do it.”

Dressed in their lightest, most comfortable clothes, they sneaked out the back door, took the back alleys and hailed a cab on Marylebone.

“Remind me to stop by that Danish bakery and get something for Mrs Hudson,” John said, sinking back into the seat. “She’s been an absolute champion.”

Sherlock nodded. “And did I hear you say something about a fan?”

“We can’t leave the windows open and the heat is killing us,” John said. “But I want your promise that you won’t take it apart like the last one.”

“I told you, it was broken before I started,” Sherlock insisted, rolling his eyes. “I was trying to fix it.”

“Well, you failed,” John said, grinning. “So please don’t even try this time. I’d like to be cool tonight.”

Sherlock heaved a put-upon sigh. “Whatever you say, John.”

They both lost themselves in their phones for the rest of the ride. John caught up on his messages, sending a few reassuring lines to Harry and promising to meet her for coffee soon so they could talk in person. Preferably in one of their flats to avoid anyone overhearing, he thought. It would be a while until he felt less paranoid about the media listening in on him, that was for sure.

He had received suspiciously few messages since his wedding and strongly suspected Mycroft had a hand in this, likely filtering all incoming messages before they ever reached John’s phone. He could only hope he hadn’t missed anything important that the British Government had deemed irrelevant

“He’s been monitoring your phone since we called 999 on your wedding day,” Sherlock said without looking up from his phone. "I told him to pass along anything that wasn’t press enquiries or long lost acquaintances trying to get in touch so they could sell you out to the media.”

John blinked. That hadn’t even occurred to him. “Thank you.”

Sherlock shrugged. “It was the least I could do. Clearly we should have also blocked Mycroft himself, since it was him who decided to blab in the end.”

“I thought you agreed with him on that?”

“I do,” Sherlock said. “But he should have presented his reasoning and asked for your permission first instead of thrusting you into all this without any warning.”

Seeing as he himself tended to do the same thing, though to a far lesser extent, John had to bite his tongue to keep from commenting. Perhaps Sherlock was learning his lesson, even if Mycroft clearly hadn’t yet and likely never would.

*****

John hadn’t realised how much he had needed a bit of retail therapy. It wasn’t something he usually indulged in but he had just gotten a refund for a pair of expensive wedding rings and Sherlock was right about the contents of his closet.

It was therefore with very little reluctance that John found himself entering stores that were a bit more upmarket than he would usually choose for himself and trying on clothes he would not have dared to look at twice if he had been on his own. But Sherlock, damn him, had an eye for these things.

He wasn’t above indulging himself, either, and John’s mouth turned dry as Sherlock modelled a shirt that had a subtle, silvery-metallic shimmer to it. It made John’s fingers itch to touch and he had to swallow before he managed to speak. “That one. Get that one.”

Sherlock looked at him, took in whatever John’s face showed at the moment, and did as he was told for once. He also got a pair of dark blue skinny trousers that ended just above his knees. John had not hitherto spent much time thinking about calves but found himself quite unable to tear his eyes away from Sherlock’s pale skin.

It was, he thought, a seduction in stages, done so subtly that it was impossible to accuse Sherlock of doing anything at all. John felt seduced anyway and retaliated by making Sherlock watch him try on various t-shirts to figure out which ones best displayed his biceps.

Laden down with their purchases, they did stop for ice cream and sat down on a bench to enjoy the treat and rest their legs for a bit.

“This was a good idea,” John said, licking his ice cream. “I realise I say that every time we go out but we  _really_ should go out more often. Screw the press.”

Sherlock grinned. “You really do. But I do recall mentions of a trip to Edinburgh. Perhaps we should consider pulling that forward until the media frenzy calms down a little. I really don’t know why they have to make such a fuss.”

“If they didn’t, what would they write about?” John asked sourly.

They sat in silence for a couple of minutes, finishing their ice cream.

John ate the rest of his wafer cone and nodded to himself. “You know what? Let’s do it. We can go home, find a hotel, pack our stuff and hop on a train tomorrow morning.”

Sherlock turned to him, eyes wide with surprise. “Really?”

John nodded again. “Really. I want to get out of here for a bit and it’s bound to be at least a bit cooler there than it is here.”

“I think I know someone who would just  _love_ to pay for our holiday,” Sherlock said. “As compensation for putting the press on us without asking for permission.”

They looked at each other and laughed like two school boys who had somehow gained access to a stash of sweets.

Finally, they got up and gathered their bags.

“There’s one more place I want to go,” Sherlock said. “And you wanted to stop by that bakery.”

“Right, yeah. Lead on.”

Side by side, they lost themselves in the maze that was the massive Westfield Shopping Centre once more. The excursion had done wonders for John's mood and he felt decidedly light and happy. Every now and then he stole a sideways glance at Sherlock to find the hint of a smile hovering around the corner of his mouth. It looked a bit mischievous.

“What are you plotting?” John asked, smiling. “You’ve got that look on your face that means someone is about to get fucked up.”

Sherlock grinned. “Nothing at all,” he lied.

John wanted to question him further but Sherlock did a left turn into one of the shops and it became clear that the only person about to be fucked up was John himself.

“Wait,” he laughed as Sherlock took in the displays. “Did you just take me underwear shopping?”

“Relax,” Sherlock said, just loud enough for John to hear him. “I won’t model these for you.” He paused. “Not here.”

John looked at the mannequins, clad in tight, expensive underwear, and imagined Sherlock modelling any of it. The promise sent a thrill down his spine. “Don’t let me stop you.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. “Soon I won’t.”

And, oh, the promise in these words, in his eyes. John became acutely aware that they hadn’t kissed yet and that he desperately wanted them to. But this was for Sherlock to decide and it was for him to take the first step, whenever he felt ready.


	21. Chapter 21

They got up early the next morning, packed their bags, said goodbye to Mrs Hudson and managed to leave through the front door without seeing a single reporter. Perhaps 5:30am was a bit too early for the media.

“I suppose they are not that desperate for a story after all,” Sherlock said, pleased. “Either that or Mycroft got them to bugger off.”

They made it to Kings Cross in plenty of time for a coffee and still-warm croissants before boarding their train. It was an early one during the week and not too many people seemed keen on going to Edinburgh at this particular time. John frankly couldn’t understand why. London was dreadful in this heat. At least the train had air conditioning.

He and Sherlock had no trouble securing a four-seater with a table in an almost empty compartment, putting their bags onto the empty seats next to them to discourage anyone from joining them. John looked at Sherlock across the table, felt his knees nudge his own and couldn’t think of anything he would rather do than spend the next four hours staring at him.

‘ _It's been three weeks’_ he thought. _‘If things had gone differently, I’d just be back from my honeymoon.’_

But instead he was here and the English landscape whizzed past the window. He couldn’t imagine being anywhere else. It astonished him that he had ever thought marrying Mary (or anyone else, for that matter) was a good idea, that it could make him happy. When he tried to find the logic behind it now, he came up empty.

Still, he couldn’t stop prodding at the issue, as if it were a loose tooth. He wanted to be able to explain it to Sherlock, wanted him to know that John’s lapse in judgement had been just that and wasn’t going to happen again. He needed them both to be sure.

“Shut up,” Sherlock said, nudging him with his knee again.

John laughed. “I haven’t said anything!”

“You were thinking. It’s annoying.”

John rolled his eyes at him. “This from a man who does nothing but think clever thoughts.”

Smiling, Sherlock leaned back in his seat. “Therein lies the difference. _Clever_ thoughts, John, not self-deprecating ones.”

John didn’t know how Sherlock had known but he was long past being surprised by this sort of almost-mind reading.

“Fine,” he said. “What, pray tell, should I be thinking about then?”

Sherlock’s eyes lit up with mischief and a spark of heat.

“Well,” he murmured, leaning forward and dropping his voice, holding John’s gaze, his tone suggestive as anything, “you could be thinking about taking me-”

John swallowed, his throat going dry, heart pounding in his chest.

“-out to dinner tonight,” Sherlock finished casually, leaning back with a self-satisfied expression. There was laughter in his eyes.

John breathed out. “Tease.”

All he got in reply was an eyebrow raised in challenge.

‘ _Ok then.’_ Two could play that game.

John leaned forward and beckoned Sherlock closer, smiling benignly. “So, do you spend a lot of time thinking about what it will feel like when I take you ... to dinner?”

He watched something in Sherlock’s eyes flare and a barely noticeable flush spreading across those cheekbones. Checkmate.

Sherlock smiled and his voice was just a little breathy when he responded. “All the time.”

*****

They arrived at Waverly Station in Edinburgh just before 11am and took a cab to their hotel in the Old Town.

“I keep forgetting how close everything here is,” John commented as they got out of the cab after a five-minute ride. He breathed in deeply. Even in the city centre you could tell the air quality was so much better than back home. In this city centre, it was actually possible to walk anywhere within about fifteen minutes.

They carried their bags into the foyer and John got their keys from the receptionist. In the interest of at least trying to stay anonymous, they had booked the room under his name. If the nice old lady behind the reception desk recognised either of them, she didn’t let on, merely handing him their keys and wishing them both a lovely stay.

John saw her look between him and Sherlock, could see her make the assumption, and felt warm satisfaction spread through his body. _‘Yes,’_ he thought. _‘He’s mine.’_

He thanked her with a smile, hoisted the strap of his bag onto his shoulder and led Sherlock up the narrow, carpeted stairs and to their room.

It was a cosy affair with a large double-bed that looked like you could drown in it, a desk, TV and two comfortable-looking armchairs squeezed into a corner. The bathroom wasn’t big but enough for the two of them and they weren’t going to be spending too much time in their room anyway. Not with an entire city to explore and re-familiarise themselves with.

They barely stopped long enough to put down their bags and refresh themselves a little before they went out for a stroll along the Royal Mile and lunch.

Just as they had hoped, Edinburgh wasn’t quite as sweltering as London. The sun shone and there was a lovely mild breeze.

“This is perfect,” John sighed as they leaned against a wall overlooking Princes Street Gardens and took in the view of the city. “I’m so glad we decided to come here.”

Sherlock hummed in agreement, his gaze fixed on the people walking below. “Would you like to go to the Royal Botanic Gardens tomorrow?”

Images of their trip to Kew Gardens came to John’s mind - the easy companionship, the heat, that incredibly tense moment in the hothouse. A pleasant shiver travelled down his spine. “I’d love to.”

They continued their walk, ambling down to the Grassmarket and past its colourful pubs, spilling over with tourists enjoying the sunshine. Sherlock, always the opportunist, dragged John across the market and up the street to a row of secondhand bookshops.

John smiled indulgently at first but soon got sucked into the selection of sci-fi and fantasy novels in a place called Armchair Books while Sherlock disappeared somewhere in the back where the non-fiction books could be found. After a while, John followed the narrow, winding path between the packed shelves, taking several sharp turns before he found Sherlock among the dusty scientific books, flipping through a heavy tome on something or other - it appeared to be in Greek.

“Remember you’ll have to carry that around with you if you buy it,” John said, grinning when Sherlock jumped. “I’m sure people aren’t that desperate for whatever this is, so it will probably still be there if we come back at a later time.”

“Hm? Oh, yes. Don’t worry, John, I merely wished to look something up. I haven’t tried to read Greek in a while and it doesn’t do to get rusty on languages. But this particular volume is already too out-of-date to be of use for the Work.”

He returned the book to its place on the shelf and they left, though John couldn’t stop himself from picking up a fantasy novel for three quid.

“I’m not carrying that for you,” Sherlock told him, grinning.

“Oh, shut up,” John laughed. “It doesn’t weigh several pounds, as opposed to that brick you were looking at.”

Squabbling and bickering, they returned to the Royal Mile and followed it down to Parliament and the Palace of Holyroodhouse. Before they knew it, they had passed the royal residence and were approaching Arthur’s Seat.

“Do you want to go up?” John asked, nodding towards it.

Sherlock hesitated. “I’m not sure we’re wearing the right shoes for any sort of hiking,” he said. “But we can definitely walk to the Crags.”

They did and John felt his mood, already quite good, improve with every step he took in the fresh air. Every now and then, they met other hikers, mostly tourists and some joggers who seemed to have decided that the steep stairs leading up to the top of Arthur’s Seat were just the thing for a workout session. John watched them and shuddered.

“You couldn’t make me run up those stairs if you set my arse on fire,” he declared, making Sherlock bark a laugh.

“I shall endeavour not to. I quite like your arse the way it is.”

There was nothing John could say to that without putting them back into dangerous territory, so he merely grinned and bent forward a little to sniff at a gorse bush. It had already lost most of its flowers, given that its main season was in spring, but some still persisted, filling the air with the sweet and out-of-place scent of coconuts.

They reached the Crags after about an hour’s casual stroll and found a flat rock to sit on and enjoy the view of the city with the sea stretching away to the east and the Pentland Hills rising up in the northwest.

“It’s beautiful,” John murmured. “I can’t believe I waited so long to come back.”

“When was the last time you were here?” Sherlock asked, stretching his long legs in front of him. They were sitting so close their shoulders brushed.

“Uh, gosh, I don’t know ... must have been ten years or more now,” John said. “Came here with my mates just before we got deployed. I remember having a picnic in the Meadows. Bill got so drunk he puked up a tree.”

Sherlock chuckled. “ _Up_ a tree?”

“Mm-hmm. Wouldn’t have thought it possible but he did it. Of course it all came back down. It was disgusting and we haven’t let him live it down.”

“I’m sure we can do better than that,” Sherlock said. “A couple of days of peace and quiet, good food and enough nature to get some clean air into our lungs and definitely no projectile vomiting of any kind.”

John laughed. “Sounds too good to be true. I’m in.”

He sighed and slumped against Sherlock, letting his head rest on his friend’s shoulder. “This is perfect, do you know? I can’t imagine a better place to be than right here with you.”

“Really?” Sherlock’s voice was low but John could hear the teasing note in it. “Because I could think of a place or two that would be even better. Less public, definitely.”

John smiled. “True. But right now? This is perfect.”

Sherlock didn’t reply out loud but he did wrap his arm around him and that was quite enough.

*****

They made it back to their hotel in time to each take a shower before dinner. Sherlock let John go first, knowing he would be quicker about it. Still, he almost followed him into the bathroom. Despite their relaxed attitude and the beautiful walk they had gone on, the tension between them had ratcheted ever further up and it was getting more difficult by the hour to remember what they were waiting for.

He took some deep breaths and occupied himself with laying out some clothes to wear to dinner while John finished his shower. They likely weren’t going to go out again but he felt he should look nice anyway. This was going to be their first dinner away from home since Mary had died and since they had both acknowledged that they wanted more.

John emerged from the shower just as Sherlock began fidgeting. He had his towel wrapped securely around his waist and Sherlock had seen him shirtless numerous times by now, but he still found himself staring.

John, always observant at the most surprising moments, gave a slow smile. “Something the matter?”

Sherlock chose to let his gaze linger. “No.”

Slowly, he raised his gaze to meet John’s eyes and demonstratively licked his lips. “I’m starving.” Pause. “Are you done in the bathroom?”

“All yours,” John said, slightly breathless.

Sherlock smirked and brushed past him, letting his hand trail across John’s bare chest, the tips of his fingers barely brushing his skin. “You had best get dressed, then.”

He managed to close the door behind himself before breathing out, flexing his hand and smiling at himself in the mirror. Yes, they were teasing one another mercilessly, but he could live with that. It was a mutual dance, consensual in every way. He could enjoy this for some time, this slow simmer of want.

Still smiling, Sherlock stepped out of his clothes and into the shower, letting the happiness bubble up inside him unimpeded for once. Whatever happened, happened, and for once he wasn’t worried about getting hurt. They were in too deep for that already. It was either going to turn into an absolute catastrophe or the best thing that had ever happened to him. And if one thing was clear, it was that John also didn’t want another catastrophe.

He finished his shower, blow-dried and gelled his hair into submission and walked back into the room they shared in nothing but his pants to collect his clothes. It was worth it just for the gob-smacked look on John’s face. Pretending nothing was out of the ordinary, Sherlock got dressed and turned towards him expectantly.

“Ready?”

“Uh...” John said, still staring at him. “Oh, god, yes.”

A thrill shot down his spine at the callback to their very first case together, though the hunger in John’s eyes was far more pronounced now.

Sherlock grinned and opened the door. “Let’s go down, then. I hear they have fried Mars bar on the dessert menu.”


	22. Chapter 22

Sherlock wanted to kill him, John was almost certain.

They went down the stairs and had a truly delicious dinner, each drinking a glass of wine and indulging in a less controversial dessert of chocolate fudge cake with ice cream. Talking came easily and they chatted about this and that, their plans for their holiday, how long they wanted to stay, what they wanted to see and do, how long the Yard would get on without them and so on. And throughout all this, Sherlock never once mentioned or even alluded to his little display upstairs, doing a masterful job of pretending nothing had happened at all.

It made John’s fingers clench around his fork and he realised he was being teased mercilessly when Sherlock just happened to catch his eyes before closing his own in bliss while licking ice cream off his spoon.

The dinner was in many ways a live demonstration of Einstein’s theory of relativity. On the one hand, it seemed to go on forever, the tension between them rising and rising until the air surrounding them seemed thick as syrup, the noise around them muted and all movement slowed down to a crawl.

On the other hand, their conversation flowed freely and easily and the food was delicious. Their plates were cleared away and dessert brought out in what felt like the blink of an eye to John and he couldn’t recall having more than a spoonful of chocolate fudge brownie before his plate was empty and they were rising from the table.

Sherlock took one look at him, clearly deduced his state of mind and said: “Care for a stroll up to the Castle?”

John didn’t point out that they had hadn’t been planning to go out again after their long walk today. He glanced at the clock on the wall, concluded - just as Sherlock had no doubt done - that if they went up to their room now there would be no saving them, and nodded. “Yes, let’s. I’m so full, I think a walk will do me good.”

They left, both secretly glad that it was warm enough to forego jackets. Any excuse to go upstairs might have resulted in something they weren’t quite ready for.

It was a warm evening and they walked along slowly, careful on the old, uneven cobblestones. In the dark, it was easy to imagine what Edinburgh would have looked like 200 or 300 years ago, even more so when they reached the large Castle square. They leaned against the wall there, just another pair of tourists out for the evening, and gazed out across Princes Street Gardens and the New Town.

“It’s beautiful here,” John said quietly, breathing in deeply.

“We must have said that about five times today, between the two of us,” Sherlock replied, smiling. He had been smiling a lot today.

John watched the soft breeze lift that one errant curl that always hung in Sherlock’s face and felt an almost unbearable wave of emotion crash over him. His words got stuck in his throat and all he could do was stare at Sherlock, knocked off his feet by the sudden and visceral love overwhelming his entire being.

It wasn’t as if it was new, this feeling, but he had spent so many years carefully hiding it away, only ever daring to look at it from the corner of his proverbial eye. Now, finally, it was out here in the open, taking centre stage in his emotional landscape as it always should have done.

“John?”

He must have been silent for too long because Sherlock turned his head to look at him. He took in the expression on John’s face and his eyes widened.

Unable to tear his gaze away, John watched the play of emotions unfold on Sherlock’s face - surprise, doubt, hesitation and a sudden flash of certainty before even that got replaced by an aching tenderness that John suspected mirrored his own expression.

They stared at each other in silence and Sherlock swayed forward a little before rocking back and glancing around, suddenly remembering that they were out in the open in a very popular spot where any number of people might see.

The thought was like a bucket of cold water over both their heads and John looked away and cleared his throat. “I-”

“Let’s go back,” Sherlock said, his voice rough. “I think we’ve walked around enough for one day and we’re going to do more walking tomorrow if we want to visit the Royal Botanic Gardens.”

John nodded and they fell into step beside one another. It was barely 9pm but they had had an early morning.

They made it back to their hotel, maintaining a healthy foot of distance between them, ascended the stairs and Sherlock unlocked the door on the second attempt.

It clicked shut behind them and John’s heart beat twice before he turned and backed Sherlock against the door.

They stared at each other, back in the dreamlike atmosphere their dinner had spun around them earlier.

“Sherlock...”

Sherlock dipped his head, pulling John closer with one hand on his upper arm, and brought their mouths together.

*****

Sherlock couldn’t hold back the gasp that escaped him at the first touch of their lips, couldn’t have held it back even with a gun to his head.

And then John’s hands were there, one cupping his cheek and the other curling around his hip, keeping him pinned. It hardly registered beyond the searing contact because by then John was kissing him, kissing the breath right out of his lungs, erasing every thought from Sherlock’s brain with a sweep of his tongue against his lips. He opened his mouth, his hand clenching around John’s upper arm, the other snaking around to his back to pull him impossibly closer.

The first touch of their tongues almost brought him to his knees and he spared a second to be intensely grateful to the door holding him up before all higher thought was once more discontinued.

The hand cupping his cheek moved back so John could card his fingers through his hair and Sherlock moaned and arched into the touch, pressing their chests together and feeling his eyes roll back into his head at the sensation.

John pulled his hand back and raised his other one as well, framing Sherlock’s face and gentling the kiss, turning it from urgent and desperate to something soft and slow that made Sherlock’s toes curl.

Finally, he pulled back completely and they stayed in place for a bit, panting and trying to catch their breaths.

“God,” John finally murmured, thumbs stroking Sherlock’s cheekbones.

Sherlock smiled and met his gaze and they both started to giggle, another release of tension.

“You all right?”

Sherlock nodded, still beyond speech as his mind finally got time to process.

Giving him some space, John took several steps back and crouched down to take off his shoes. Sherlock could see his hands shake, an intensely satisfying sight.

‘ _I did that’_ he thought. _‘Kissing me did that.’_

He stayed leaning against the door until he could be sure that he wouldn’t lunge for John again. Now that he had had a taste, it seemed even harder to resist. Too soon, still. They needed more time, deserved more time. He would be damned if he rushed this. He would happily kiss John every day for a month or more if it meant getting this right. They only had that one chance and he was determined not to mess it up. Still, a little teasing couldn’t hurt.

*****

Sherlock had retreated to the bathroom to get changed and John took a minute to breathe before changing as well and knocking on the bathroom door. “Can I come in?”

In lieu of a verbal reply, Sherlock opened the door for him. He was in the middle of brushing his teeth and managed to smile with only his eyes. John was quite sure that no one else ever got to see that particular smile. Hell, even he himself had only rarely gotten to see it so far.

They stood side by side at the sink, brushing their teeth and staring at each other in the mirror. There was a teasing glint in Sherlock’s eye that had John instantly suspicious.

“Wa-?” he asked around a mouthful of toothpaste.

Sherlock spat into the sink. “Nothing,” he said innocently. “I was just looking forward to our massage.”

John, who had honestly forgotten that this was now part of their evening routine, almost choked on his toothpaste.

Once he had regained his breath and his mouth wasn’t full of foam, he said: “Did you bring me here to give me a heart attack?”

Sherlock laughed. “Please, John, I would never voluntarily deprive myself of you. Since this seems to be the course we are set on and we both know what the ... climax ... will look like, I think it’s only fair to enjoy the ride and draw it out for as long as we possibly can.”

John gaped at him, feeling his heart beat in double-time. “So, that’s a yes, then.”

Sherlock merely laughed again and followed him out of the bathroom and into bed.

His hands on John’s shoulder felt reverent in a way John was already beginning to get used to. Just the memory of the first time Sherlock had given him a shoulder massage was enough to make his spine tingle and his stomach flutter. If anything, Sherlock had only gotten better since then, becoming an expert in how to manipulate the tense muscles and tendons in John’s shoulder without him ever telling him anything. John didn’t even want to know what on earth Sherlock must have deduced from the wound.

“Only your bravery,” Sherlock murmured, clearly having caught on to what John was thinking about in that uncanny way he had. “Facing the enemy head on, as always.”

John wanted to argue but then he felt Sherlock’s lips pressed to his shoulder and promptly decided that whatever he had been meaning to say wasn’t that important.

The massage left him boneless and ready to fall asleep where he sat, as it always did, but there was the temptation of repaying Sherlock in kind holding him back and keeping him awake. He would be foolish to deny either of them this contact and Sherlock’s happy little sigh at the first swipe of his hands down his back was more than enough to make him focus on what he was doing.

“You’re staring,” Sherlock mumbled into his pillow.

John laughed. “Can you blame me? Michelangelo would have wept at the sight of you and smashed his David to pieces to start all over again.”

He thought he could see Sherlock’s ears redden at the compliment. “Don’t be ridiculous. And for the record, I wasn’t complaining. I like feeling your gaze on me.”

“Well, that’s lucky for the both of us, because I don’t intend to stop staring anytime soon,” John told him, following the most vicious scar all the way from Sherlock’s shoulder to his hip with hands and eyes alike.

Feeling those tense muscles relax under his hands as Sherlock all but melted into the mattress was one of the most rewarding things he had ever experienced and the novelty of it didn’t fade with repetition. If anything, it got more and more amazing each time they did this - repeated proof that the novelty also wasn’t wearing off for Sherlock. Instead, it only seemed to get more intense for the both of them as they learned what felt good and what worked best, where to dig in a thumb and when to use less pressure.

When John finally decided that Sherlock’s scarred back had received sufficient attention - if such a thing was even possible - and his hands ached from digging into stiff muscles, he let himself fall onto his side of the bed with a satisfied sigh, staring at the ceiling and flexing his hands a little.

“Mmmh, that was superb,” Sherlock murmured next to him. “You keep getting better and better, John.”

John grinned. “The same can be said about you, but that’s hardly surprising, with that big brain of yours.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Sherlock said, smiling. “My back is the most relaxed it has ever been.” He paused. “Everything else ... isn’t.”

John blinked and felt his jaw drop as Sherlock rolled onto his back with a low groan. He hadn’t been joking.

Vivid images of their little loss of control two days ago flashed through John’s head and his throat went dry. “Uh...”

And Sherlock, damn him, was still looking at him with that teasing, calculating glint in his eye. He was definitely up to something - one part of him rather literally.

John licked his lips. “Do you ... want a hand with that?”

It was gratifying to see Sherlock’s eyes flare at that but he shook his head. “No, thank you. I think your hands have done enough work for one night, wouldn’t you agree?” Another pause, just enough to give John time to imagine all sorts of scenarios of where this might lead. “You may watch, however.”

“Watch?”

“I did say I like you looking at me, John.”

John swallowed hard as the words sank in and his pulse sped up. Surely Sherlock didn’t mean...?

But even as he thought it, Sherlock let one hand trail down his naked chest to the waistband of his pyjamas. “Are you looking, John?”

“God, yes,” John gasped, already mesmerised.

“Lights,” Sherlock said. It took John a moment to get the message but then he flipped off the ceiling light and turned on the smaller lamps on their bedside tables, plunging the rest of the room into shadow and lighting their bed with a soft, golden glow: a warm, intimate bubble just for the two of them.

He couldn’t believe this was happening. Sherlock must have been planning this for hours. That teasing glint had been in his eye for most of their day. John thought of Sherlock imagining this all day long and bit back a groan. Sherlock really had been planning to kill him.

He watched in breathless anticipation as Sherlock palmed himself through the cotton of his pyjama bottoms, watching as he lifted his hand to his mouth to lick one wet stripe across his palm before pushing his hand beneath his waistband in one smooth movement, watched as he threw his head back with a soft moan, eyelids fluttering.

A moment later, Sherlock forced his eyes back open, searching John’s gaze, and repeated his question. “Are you looking, John?”

“Uhn,” John made, gaze skidding back and forth between Sherlock’s face and the outline of his hand under the fabric. He was itching to reach out.

“No touching,” Sherlock warned and John groaned, sitting up and shoving his hands under his legs. “God.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched. “Good.”

His breath was coming a little harder already, his exhalation an audible sigh as he wrapped his hand around himself and stroked, just once.

And then he began to talk.

“Do you remember when we went to Baskerville, John? I do. I remember walking in there and meeting Corporal Lyons. You checked him out, ever so subtly, when you thought no one was looking. But I’m always looking at you, John. I saw. And then you pulled out your ID and there was Captain John Watson in your voice and in your posture.” Another stroke. “I was very grateful for my long coat, John.”

‘ _Oh, god’_ John thought, too turned on to even consider being embarrassed about having been caught out.

“I love watching you pull rank,” Sherlock said softly, pitching his voice low on purpose. “I love when you stop pretending to be ordinary and out comes Captain Watson or Doctor Watson, as the situation may require. I love when you start giving orders.” His eyelids fluttered again, colour high on his cheeks now, and John didn’t doubt him for a moment. “I love when you give orders, fully expecting to be obeyed, and people _do_ . They always do, John. Clients, criminals, Scotland Yard. Even I. Especially I.”

His other hand was at his hip now, tugging at the fabric of his pyjama trousers and pulling them down.

John moaned, eyes locked on Sherlock’s hand where it wrapped around his flushed erection. “God, Sherlock. Fuck yes.”

He couldn’t remember ever having seen something as hot as this, couldn’t recall anyone giving him this kind of performance. He could feel the blood pulsing in his veins with each heartbeat.

“Want some more examples?” Sherlock asked. “You aimed a gun at the Golem and told him to let me go. I went home and wanked myself raw after that case.” Another slow stroke from root to tip, his thumb circling there for a moment.

John whimpered.

“You punched the Chief Superintendent for me. I spent two years with that knowledge stuck in my head, John. And three months ago, when we went to the Royal Guard and found Bainbridge in the showers and you managed to pull out both the captain and the doctor at once. John, I went home and thought of you fucking me in the shower.”

John squeezed his eyes shut for a moment to get that image out of his head but of course that didn’t work at all. He was achingly hard, his heart pounding, hands clenched in the bedsheets under his shins. “I’d fuck you anywhere you want,” he managed to get out. “God, Sherlock.”

Sherlock nodded, panting now. “Yes. Soon, John. I’ve been waiting for so long.”

He squeezed himself and grunted. “The day you moved in ... you can’t possibly imagine how it haunts me, John. Our entire conversation at Angelo’s. I wish I had never said a word. I wanted so badly to take it back the moment I realised you had shot the cabbie. You did that ... for me. No one’s ever done anything like that for me, John. No one else would. I suggested Chinese because the alternative would have been to drag you home and suck you off on the stairs.”

John couldn’t help but imagine that. He gave up, as he had known he would, and shoved a hand down his own pants with a desperate moan, immediately setting a fast, hard rhythm.

“I wish you had. Your fucking  _mouth_ , Sherlock, I...” Words failed him then.

Sherlock was writhing where he lay, his eyes locked on John’s face, hips moving in counter-rhythm to his hand on his cock. “Soon,” he breathed. “Just as I told you the other night. It’ll be so good, John,  _sooooo good_ .”

His mouth was half open, shaping an “O”, his gaze trailing down to watch John stroking himself almost frantically. Sherlock threw his head back and came with a barely muffled shout, his hips lifting off the mattress, back arching and his free hand flailing until it landed on John’s thigh, clenching tightly.

The visual and the sudden contact were enough to push John over the edge himself and he bowed forward, his forehead coming to rest on Sherlock’s right hipbone.

He could still feel Sherlock trembling as he panted against his overheated skin and John couldn’t help but stick out his tongue and lick at his hip, tasting sweat and Sherlock.

They both moaned in unison and Sherlock shuddered almost violently.

“Bloody hell,” John gasped once he managed to get enough breath into his lungs to speak. “Fuck, Sherlock.”

He lifted his head with some difficulty, just as Sherlock began to laugh rather shakily. “Agreed.”

For several long minutes, they remained where they were, catching their breath and trying to calm their racing hearts.

Finally, John sat up and took stock. They both were a mess, sweaty and rumpled and splattered with come. 

“Come on,” he said, nudging Sherlock with his elbow. “We need a shower.”

Sherlock laughed. “Bold of you to assume that I can move.”

“You better try, unless you want to end up stuck to these sheets.”

Grimacing, Sherlock sat up. “Fine. Come on, then.”

*****

Sherlock stumbled into the bathroom on unsteady legs, stepping out of his soiled pyjama bottoms on the way and carrying them with him in his hand. They needed a wash if he wanted to wear them again anytime soon.

John had clearly had the same idea and they grinned at each other in the bathroom mirror as they threw their clothes into the sink and Sherlock turned on the tab. “Get the shower ready,” he said. “I just want to soak these for a bit.”

He watched in the mirror as John stepped into the shower and turned on the hot water. Three weeks and this was where they were now - naked in the bathroom together, legs still trembling and their pulses still elevated. And it felt so ... normal. As if this was what it had always been supposed to be like for them and they had finally caught on to what the universe had been trying to tell them all along.

Sherlock smiled to himself, squeezed a bit of soap into the sink and made sure their clothes were soaking properly before leaving them be and turning to join John in the shower.

And, god, the way John looked at him. His gaze felt like a warm caress, a gentle weight on Sherlock’s overheated skin, raising goosebumps in its wake. The sensation didn’t leave any room for embarrassment about his state of undress and after seeing John’s reaction to his little display, he really couldn’t make himself care anyway. Clearly John liked what he saw. It was enough.

Sherlock stepped into the shower and wrapped his arms around John, crowding in close until they were skin to skin from head to toe, occupying the same space and incandescent with it.

John pressed a kiss to his clavicle and Sherlock hummed, turning his head to bury his nose in John’s short hair, his hands stroking across his strong back, mapping the muscles he knew so well by now.

“That was phenomenal,” John told him quietly. “The hottest thing I’ve ever seen, no doubt about it.”

Sherlock smiled against John’s skin. “I’m glad you enjoyed that. I wanted to make you understand that it’s ... that it’s always been this way for me.”

Even now, he still automatically tensed at his own confession, bracing for rejection.

Instead, John’s arms wrapped around him in return and his lips trailed up Sherlock’s neck. “Thank you for telling me. It’s always been this way for me, too. The only difference is that I wasn’t brave enough to admit it even to myself.”

The words came over him like a blessing from on high. Sherlock tightened his hold on John, pressed his face to the damp skin of his shoulder and let sentiment sweep through him. 

He was safe to enjoy this, safe to want this.

He could feel the words piling up on his tongue and deliberately bit them back. Now was not the time. Another thing to be postponed to “soon”.


	23. Chapter 23

They got up early the next morning, had a large breakfast and walked through the Princes Street Gardens towards Hanover Street, where they caught a bus to the Royal Botanic Gardens. Although it was a lot cooler in Edinburgh than it had been in London, the sun was shining and, knowing they would spend the day outdoors, they had both donned a pair of sunglasses. Sherlock rarely wore his back home and had never seen John wearing glasses of any kind. It was very distracting and he hoped John would get a chance to wear them all day. Right now, it promised to be a beautiful day, though Sherlock felt compelled to point out that you never knew with the Scottish weather.

“Ha, tell me about it,” John laughed. “When I was here with my mates, we got all seasons in a single day. Had a nice warm lunch in the park and when we walked back to the hotel from the pub at night it snowed.”

“What time of year was that?” Sherlock asked.

“Uh ... late March I think? I remember Murray had brought shorts and flip-flops.”

They both shook their heads at that. Bill Murray, always cheerful and full of amusing stories without ever taking offense at anything, was Sherlock’s favourite out of all of John’s old army mates. He was also the only one he had met more than once, so perhaps the feeling was mutual.

They got off the bus right outside the entrance to the gardens and followed a couple with two overly excited children through the gate.

“Which way?” John asked as the path split before them.

Sherlock shrugged. “You said something about ferns?”

That got him a nod and a smile. “The hothouse, then.”

They set off down the path, pointing out particular plants to each other and laughing about a squirrel in the grass that was being followed by a pigeon.

Sherlock couldn’t remember the last time he had felt this light-hearted for this long. Every step seemed a novelty, every joke funnier, every look more meaningful.

He wanted to reach out and take John’s hand but they were both conscious of other people being around. It had barely been three weeks and neither of them wanted to risk exposure, even this far from London. You never knew who might be watching.

So, no touching. Sherlock comforted himself with the thought that it would make touching John tonight behind closed doors all the sweeter. Delayed gratification for the sake of their privacy. And it didn’t hurt to remember that he hadn’t been in a position to touch John at all a month ago. All things considered, he could deal with keeping his hands to himself for a day, though he couldn’t wait until it wasn’t necessary anymore. When he could reach out and grasp John’s hand in public, link their finger and walk through London’s busy streets without a care who saw.

Sherlock blinked, stopping dead in the middle of the path.

John took two more steps before noticing. “Sherlock? You all right?”

He tried to make his mouth work to reply but couldn’t quite muster the brainpower. “I...”

And now John was right in front of him, looking worried. Sherlock forced himself to focus.

“Sherlock?”

“I’m fine,” he said. “I was just ... thinking about holding your hand.”

John smiled. “And that surprised you so much you had to stop and process?”

Sherlock shook his head. “No. I just ... you know we can’t, not here in public, but ... I was thinking how we’ll be able to do that soon, give it another month or two.”

John continued to look puzzled.

“I no longer doubt that,” Sherlock elaborated. “There wasn’t a moment where I thought it wasn’t going to happen eventually. Do you see? I no longer doubt this. You. Us.”

Comprehension lit John’s face and they beamed at each other. John looked like he was going to lunge at him right then and there. “Really?”

“Really,” Sherlock confirmed, still amazed by how quickly the shift had occurred. Even yesterday, he had still doubted. Now, for reasons he couldn’t quite define, it seemed obvious that John was in this for real. He couldn’t figure out what precisely had led to this change but it hardly mattered. It had happened and here they were now. Perhaps it was due to the look on John’s face last night.

“Come on,” he said, when John gave no indication of wanting to move at all. “Show me these ferns you were talking about. I hear there’s a lot to see in these gardens.”

They continued on their way, keeping half a foot’s distance between them - just far enough to seem casual.

“How do you feel about going to the pub tonight? We haven’t had a chance to go out in ages.” John sounded far more excited than an outing to the pub should cause, but Sherlock supposed that having been stuck indoors at 221b for the better part of three weeks made everything seem exciting in comparison.

“Sounds perfect.”

*****

Luck was clearly on their side that day - it was so warm in the greenhouses that hardly anyone was in them. In one of the sections, a large tree leaned across the path, long branches dripping down onto the walkway like a thick green curtain. They had the place to themselves and now there was a lovely green privacy screen surrounding them, too.

Sherlock took one look at it, grasped John’s hand and pulled him through the branches.

“Wha-” John began and the rest of his question was promptly muffled by Sherlock’s mouth on his.

All further conversation was postponed for several long, happy minutes, until they heard voices as someone else entered the greenhouse and reluctantly separated. And if they were a bit out of breath and seemed a bit flushed, well, that was to be expected in a place as hot and humid as this.

Eventually, after they had walked the entirety of the gardens, they took another bus back to the city centre and ambled along Rose Street until they found a pub that caught their fancy.

“Any plans for tomorrow?” John asked while they were waiting for their food to arrive.

Sherlock shrugged. “We haven’t been to the museum yet.”

John grinned. “What, the one with the cloned sheep? Are you telling me that you, of all people, want to see the science museum?”

Sherlock smiled back and raised his eyebrows. “Well, naturally I have no interest in science whatsoever, but since you are suggesting it...”

Rolling his eyes, John leaned back so the waitress could set his plate down. “Cheers. Well, that’s settled then. We can go to the museum in the morning and then perhaps try to climb Arthur’s Seat after all, if the weather holds.”

Sherlock hummed in agreement and picked up his cutlery. “Good idea. We’ll have to put on proper shoes when we go out in the morning.”

They finished their meal and then stayed for a while longer, having a couple of glasses of wine and chatting happily about this and that before they finally made their way back to their hotel.

*****

While giving Sherlock his massage that night, John allowed himself to press a row of kisses down his spine, one for each vertebra.

Sherlock gasped and squirmed under him, little whimpers escaping the further down John’s lips moved.

“That-that’s not exactly a massage,” he managed and John grinned against his skin. “Isn’t it? What about if I put some pressure right here?”

And he pressed his mouth firmly to a specific part of Sherlock’s lower back, just at the waistband of his pants.

Sherlock jerked as if he had been electrocuted.

John grinned.

“Is this payback for last night?” Sherlock asked, voice a bit tremulous.

“Only if you want it to be,” John promised happily, mouth trailing back up Sherlock’s spine and making sure their bodies slid together the further up he moved.

Sherlock moaned. “John...”

“Mmhh-hmm?”

“Ungh,” Sherlock said, shifting his hips and arching against John, making him grunt.

“I haven’t even gotten started with your massage yet,” John murmured, drawing back a little. “Wouldn’t want to have a gap in our data now, would we? We can’t have you massaging my shoulder and then me not returning the favour.”

Sherlock whimpered in frustration but John was not to be deterred, sliding his slick hands across his back and pretending to turn all his attention to the scars that needed treatment. By now, the sight of them no longer filled him with horror. Instead, it was deeply humbling, a testament of Sherlock’s feelings etched into his skin.

“I love how responsive you are,” he murmured in Sherlock’s ear after a couple of minutes of this. “And I’ve barely touched you yet. What do you think will happen when I start taking you apart with my hands and mouth?”

Sherlock moaned. “Why - _oh_ \- why don’t you find out?”

He managed to twist onto his back underneath John and stared up at him with hooded eyes. “Unless you’re all talk and no action?”

Challenged like that, John had no choice but to lean down and kiss him, enjoying the way Sherlock immediately opened to him and melted into the bed, little sips of sound slipping out in between their kisses.

John reached for Sherlock’s hands and pulled them up and above his head, twining their fingers together and enjoying the feeling of Sherlock arching against him, body begging for more even as he visibly bit back the words. Another challenge, John thought, pleased.

He pulled back a little, moved down a bit so he could nip and kiss at Sherlock’s long, pale throat. “Don’t bother holding back. I’ll make you beg soon enough.” He paused, then smirked. “Twice.”

*****

Burning had never felt so good.

Trails of fire wound their way up and down his body, heat singing in his veins and thrumming through his limbs. Every part of his skin that John touched seemed to be set ablaze, the tiniest hairs standing to attention, his nerves sparking with each new sensation, hypersensitive to wherever John might touch him next. He could probably deduce it if he put his mind to it but it was better this way, his mind scattered and scrambled just like the rest of him, unable to so much as assume he knew what was going to happen next.

John clearly had a mission now, all of Sherlock’s teasing having paid off rather spectacularly.

He squirmed and gasped, simultaneously trying to escape John’s mouth on his ribcage and get closer to it. He hadn’t known he was ticklish and John clearly delighted in the discovery, the touch of his lips a barely-there brush, gentle as a butterfly’s wing.

Sherlock didn’t care about the sounds he made, merely tried to keep the noise level down a bit so as not to disturb whoever was in the next room for fear that they in turn might disturb them. He thought he might combust if John stopped touching him now.

It had never been like this. This mindless obsession with touch, this desperate need to have someone else’s hands and mouth on his body. It had been ... nice, at times. But never essential, never something he needed as desperately as his next breath. Trust John to be the exception, to be the one thing more addictive than crime-solving or any drug Sherlock had ever tried.

He wanted to reach out, touch John’s back, his arms, run his fingers through his hair, anything. But John had very firmly pushed his hands up and told him to keep them there, voice full of authority, and the heady thrill that had shot down Sherlock’s spine wasn’t something he was willing to forego.

John’s mouth was on his sternum now, trailing down, down, down, all the way to Sherlock’s navel and stopping there. He keened, though it took him a while to realise that the sound was coming from his own throat. His hips were moving quite without his own volition, spine arching to press him closer and yet no matter what he did, John seemed forever out of reach, his hands and lips the only parts of him to touch Sherlock’s skin.

It was maddening. It was heaven and hell at once and Sherlock had not believed in either until this moment. It was delightful.

“John...”

He found his voice again just in time for John to rob him of speech entirely by placing his lips on Sherlock’s left hip bone. It shouldn’t feel so good, he thought. It was just another part of his body, but half the thrill came from how close it was to where he was beginning to really, _really_ want John’s mouth and the rest of it was, as always, John himself.

Hands bracketing his hips, fingertips worming beneath the waistband of his pants.

Sherlock made a noise that was almost a sob.

“Please.”

He realised he was holding on to the headboard almost desperately, fingers clenched around the wood so hard it hurt. He tried to loosen his hold a little, flexed his hands a bit, but it hardly mattered because there was the barest suggestion of a tug at his pants and he promptly forgot his hands existed.

“Yes?” John murmured, breath hot against his skin.

The simple question sent his mind skitting back to the very first night John had touched him, giving him every opportunity to say no and at the same time every reason to say yes.

“God, yes! John, please...”

He had never wanted anything as desperately as this, not even his next hit when the withdrawal had been at its worst, he was certain.

Luckily, John was in a mood to oblige him, pulling his pants down in one smooth movement and baring him to his hungry gaze. Sherlock didn’t have the time or the chance to feel embarrassed about being so exposed, not with the way John was looking at him.

“You’re beautiful. How are you so beautiful?”

He shook his head to deny the claim but John was not to be deterred and a moment later his mouth was on Sherlock’s aching erection and he was no longer willing or able to argue. Instead, he let his head fall back and groaned, trying to keep his hips still and refrain from thrusting up and _into John’s mouth oh god oh god oh god..._

John had the gall to chuckle around his cock before pulling off and pressing a soft kiss to the tip. “That’s it, Sherlock, move.”

He dove back down, hands bracketing Sherlock’s hips now, guiding him until he was thrusting into John’s mouth. Sherlock moaned and gasped, trying to parse the sensation of a hot, wet mouth around his cock and John’s blue eyes staring up at him, dark with desire.

John drew back for a moment, one hand reaching for Sherlock’s testicles and making him almost sob with need. “Come on, love.”

And then his mouth was back and Sherlock had to bite his own forearm to muffle his shout as he came right down John’s throat at the casual use of _that_ word.

John hummed and continued to suck and lick at him through it before finally drawing back with a rather smug smile.

Sherlock managed to let go of the headboard, grasped John’s arm and drew him towards him, moaning at his own taste on John’s tongue.

They kissed for several long minutes until Sherlock managed to gather enough brain cells to take in John’s state. He wanted him in his mouth rather desperately but could tell he wouldn’t get to enjoy it for very long if he tried, so he merely shoved his hand past John’s waistband and took hold of him. He set up a swift, smooth rhythm, keeping a careful eye on John’s face and altering the speed of his hand as needed. It wasn’t long before John’s mouth dropped open and he came with a strangled groan, roughly thrusting into Sherlock’s hand and collapsing on top of him.

Sherlock wiped his hand on the closest fabric available - John’s pants - and wound his arms around him, pressing little kisses to his throat and clavicle.

‘ _Mine’_ he thought, surprised by the fierceness of it. _‘You’re mine.’_

He didn’t say it out loud but John hummed and made no move to roll away, so perhaps he agreed all the same.

*****

The peace didn’t last long - Sherlock’s phone buzzed while they were still trying to catch their breaths and he cursed heartily at it. The buzzing didn’t stop.

John groaned and rolled off him, fishing around on the floor for a moment or two before slapping Sherlock’s phone onto his chest. “Answer it before I end up chucking it out of the window.”

Sherlock glanced at the screen and sighed. “You might want to do that anyway. It’s Mycroft.”

He swiped to answer the call and held the phone to his ear. “What?”

“Oh dear, I hope I’m not interrupting.” Mycroft’s voice was oozing fake sincerity, so much so that Sherlock felt tempted to stretch out his hand to see if the phone was dripping.

Sherlock couldn’t quite bring himself to glare. It was difficult to be in a bad mood right about now, with John all but sprawled on top of him, lips pressed to his chest. Even Mycroft couldn’t possibly ruin that.

“Was there a reason for this call or am I at liberty to flush my phone down the toilet now?” he asked instead of replying.

“I highly doubt you’re anywhere near a toilet, or able to walk towards it at present,” Mycroft said, unbearably smug. “I merely wished to inform you that the Yard seems to have finished their deep-dive into your and John’s financial situation. I’m sure you will be happy to hear that they haven’t found a single thing that would suggest you and John have paid anyone off in order to facilitate the death of his bride, though it was not for lack of searching. They even looked into the money left to you by grandmother Valerie.”

Sherlock blinked. “That’s in an account in France. I don’t think I’ve even looked at a statement about it in the past fifteen years or so.”

“Not for lack of trying, I might say,” Mycroft muttered and Sherlock winced. He had tried, at one point or another, to get at the money with the intention of spending it all on cocaine. Mycroft had pre-emptively denied him access then and somehow Sherlock hadn’t thought about it again since then, much as he hadn’t thought about it before desperation had nearly driven him to France. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

“Was there anything else?” he demanded. “You could have simply texted.”

“I prefer to call,” Mycroft said. “This is all with regards to the Yard’s investigation. I have my people looking into Miss Morstan, or Alexandra Bergen, or Nicola Summers, or Natasha Niakovia, or whatever other names she went by. As you see, the list is increasing each day, as is the associated number of crimes and, subsequently, victims potentially out for revenge.”

Sherlock sighed and glanced at John, who returned his gaze with a serious look on his face, no doubt well aware what the topic of conversation was. “I see. Well, do keep us posted. And don’t bother calling next time unless it’s actually important. We are trying to be on holiday here.”

He hung up before Mycroft could say anything else and set the phone down on the night stand.

“Bad news?” John asked.

He shook his head. “Not really. They’ve finished looking into our finances and couldn’t find anything to support the theory of us having hired a killer, so we should be in the clear for good now. But the list of her known aliases keeps getting longer.”

John sighed and shifted his weight a little. “Well, we suspected as much, didn’t we? At least we’ve finally been cleared, though I can’t wait for Lestrade to tell us so in an official capacity.”

“It’ll likely be some time until he gets around to that,” Sherlock murmured, wrapping his arms around John to stop him from moving away. “So I suggest we make the most of the wait.”

John smirked. “And I suppose you already have some ideas?”

Sherlock looked down at him and smiled. “Just one or two, maybe three.”

They grinned at each other, too pleased with being together to waste any time on worrying about what else the police or Mycroft might discover in their search. If anything came up, they would learn about it soon enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish all of you a lovely holiday season and I hope you get to spend it with your loved ones.  
> Stay safe ♥


	24. Chapter 24

John woke to find long arms wrapped around him and the pleasant sensation of someone kissing the base of his throat.

He hummed a little and opened his eyes to find his vision filled with the wild riot of Sherlock’s curls. “Mmh, good morning.”

“Good morning,” Sherlock replied, voice slightly muffled by John’s skin. “About time. I was beginning to think I would have to start without you.”

John blinked but was too pleased with his general situation to enquire further, instead allowing Sherlock to push at his good shoulder until he rolled over onto his back. Clearly Sherlock had some sort of plan for the morning and John was only too happy to let him get on with it.

“I’m afraid we may have to delay our visit to the museum and our hike up Arthur’s Seat,” Sherlock told him, mouthing a path down John’s chest.

“Oh? Why’s that?”

Sherlock glanced up and smirked. “Because I don’t think you’ll be able to walk all that far when I’m done here.”

John let his eyes fall closed and tipped his head back a little. “Oh dear god.”

He got a dark chuckle in response. “I did tell you, John. Remember? I’ve wanted your cock in my mouth for a really, really long time now.”

The fact that Sherlock’s breath was ghosting across John’s hip bone as he spoke only underlined that point and did nothing to help him stay calm. “Oh, god.”

Warm lips followed the breath a moment later as Sherlock planted kisses along John’s hip bone, moving achingly slowly. “You ... oh ... you do know you can take your time, right? I’m not going anywhere,” John panted.

He made the mistake of opening his eyes and found Sherlock looking back at him, those piercing iridescent eyes fixed on his face. “John, I’m afraid we’ve wasted quite enough of time. And I’m not going to lose another moment of it.”

He ducked his head and pressed another kiss to John’s right hip bone, humming into his skin.

John moaned. “Sherlock...”

“Yes,” Sherlock murmured back. “Me, John. Just me. You better remember that. Keep your eyes open. I want you to see exactly who is doing this to you.”

Well, that was ... rather pointed, wasn’t it? And with good reason.

“God, yes,” John moaned. “Don’t want anyone else, Sherlock. Just you, always just you. Please.”

Honestly, the idea of anyone else touching him now would have turned his stomach. And Mary had disliked doing this, had only ever done it grudgingly, if at all, and John didn’t want to think about her, not now or ever, if he could avoid it.

He stared down at Sherlock, that distinctive mop of dark curls, some of which tickled the skin of his belly.

Sherlock, smirking up at him, abandoned John’s hip bones and moved on to his right thigh, biting gently into the soft skin there. 

John couldn’t help it - his hips jerked. He was aching by now, and rather desperate to get Sherlock’s mouth on him.

He was hard as a rock, he knew he had started to sweat and all his remaining brainpower was focused on two things - keeping his hips still and his eyes open.

Sherlock hummed again, lapping at the mark he had sucked into the inside of John’s thigh, and moved on to the other one. His hair brushed along John’s balls and the base of his cock and he gasped for breath, hands balled to fists in the sheets.

A moment later, Sherlock repeated his actions, biting gently and sucking a matching mark into the skin with a pleased hum. He lifted his head a little so he could breathe against John’s overheated body. “Mine.”

John groaned and his eyes fell closed. He forced them open again, unwilling to miss a moment of this. “Oh god, yes. Yes, Sherlock, all yours, please...”

Sherlock didn’t make him ask twice - not this time. He brushed his nose along John’s aching cock, all the way up to the tip, and nuzzled there for a moment before opening his mouth and taking him in one smooth movement, impaling himself on it to the hilt as if he had never done anything else in his life.

John shouted and lifted his hips despite his best efforts. Sherlock’s hands came up to hold him still, pressing him into the mattress, and he let out a muffled groan that vibrated around John, sending shivers down his back and making him curse.

“Oh, god. Sherlock, you’re amazing, fantastic, brilliant, oh-”

He knew he was babbling and could barely pay enough attention to find out if he was making any sense at all. Every part of him was overwhelmed by the knowledge that this was Sherlock he was in bed with, Sherlock who was making happy little sounds as if he had never experienced anything more delightful than John’s cock in his mouth _oh god_ _this was happening right now_ and he wanted it so desperately. Those lips wrapped around his erection, that clever tongue doing unspeakable things to his glans as Sherlock pulled back a little to take a breath before diving back in. The way he hollowed his cheeks and sucked, as if desperate to get every last drop out of John, as if he needed it to survive.

And John wanted to give him everything. Everything he had and more, always, for as long as Sherlock wanted him to.

“Sherl-” he gasped, managing to unclench the fingers of his left hand and put them on Sherlock’s head instead. He wanted to warn him, to pull him off if possible, but instead just got his fingers tangled in Sherlock’s curls. 

Sherlock did pull back, but only to say: “Oh, John, brilliant! Pull my hair, please.”

And then he dove back in, wrapping his lips around the tip of John’s cock and sucking hard. His tongue did things John couldn’t have described even with a gun to his head. He thought he could actually feel his heart rate triple and his fingers clenched in Sherlock’s hair almost on autopilot, giving a sharp tug.

Sherlock groaned out loud and took him in deeper, a persistent moan vibrating in his throat and around John’s cock. One of his hands sneaked between them and he brushed his fingers gently along the sensitive underside of John’s balls.

He came almost instantly, cursing and forcing himself not to shout too loudly. And Sherlock, bless him, kept on going, eagerly swallowing every last drop and licking John clean before finally pulling away.

John lay there, panting for breath, completely and utterly dazed. He couldn’t remember the last time he had come that hard and he was aware he had thought this fairly recently already. His entire body seemed to tingle with the lingering aftershocks.

Finally, he managed to open his eyes and found Sherlock kneeling between his legs, back upright and one hand moving at an almost desperate speed on his own cock. Their eyes locked and John murmured “brilliant” and Sherlock came with a low, wrecked groan.

He collapsed onto the mattress beside John and they stared at each other, stunned by the intensity of their lust.

“God,” John finally gasped, once he found his breath again. “That was ...”

“Fantastic,” Sherlock murmured back. He was still shaking - John could feel it through the mattress and see it in his shoulders.

And then his face cracked into a huge smile and he started to giggle. John joined in immediately, unsure what was so funny but feeling the need to let out some of the adrenaline and endorphins. He pulled Sherlock close, completely ignorant of the mess between them, and laughed against his neck.

“Oh god, you brilliant, beautiful, impossible man,” he managed to get out in between his laughter. “You’re insane, do you know that?”

Sherlock chuckled. “So I have been told on numerous occasions. Never for quite this reason, though.”

“I should hope not,” John said. “That was fantastic. Best blow job I’ve ever gotten, I’m sure.”

Sherlock grinned. “You only say that now, John. Wait until I’ve had time to learn your body, to know what will make you scream and beg. I have a long list of things I want to try with you.”

“That’s it,” John said. “We’re not leaving this bed for the foreseeable feature.”

That earned him a soft laugh, which was quickly becoming one of his favourite sounds to hear. “Hmm, I did warn you that you wouldn’t be able to walk once I was done with you,” Sherlock murmured. “But I was rather hoping you would recover so we could go to the museum at some point today.”

John sighed. “Fine. If we must, I suppose we must. And I wouldn’t want you to feel like this holiday is in any way lacking.”

Sherlock propped his head up on his hand. “John, so long as I’ve got you with me, I don’t care where I am. We could be anywhere at all and I wouldn’t mind.”

John raised an eyebrow at him. “Even in Croydon?”

“Ugh, who the hell wants to be in Croydon? But I think being there with you would almost make it bearable. So, yes, if we must be in Croydon for some reason, I’d be happy if I had you with me.”

John laughed. “All right, all right. I have no plans to take you so far south of the river, never fear. I’ll be perfectly happy back home at Baker Street. Just you and I and Mrs Hudson and whatever experiments you think you can hide from me.”

Sherlock grinned. “Not that many, then. I usually tell you about all of them at some point or another.”

“Hmm, except for the ant colony I found in the kitchen cabinet once. What did you think was going to happen to these?”

Sherlock shrugged. “You never know when an ant colony might come in handy. You may have noticed we never seemed to have a lot of kitchen waste.”

John barked a laugh. “Yeah, I used to give them any apple cores I had left over. I figured they could make better use of them than I could, seeing as I wasn’t going to eat them.”

And so they bantered on, wrapped around each other, talking and laughing and teasing each other. Their hands never strayed far from each other’s skin, stroking and caressing whichever bits struck their fancy.

At some point, they finally dragged themselves out of bed and had a much-needed shower before they got dressed and left the hotel. They had missed breakfast by over an hour and weren’t sorry. There were plenty of bakeries and patisseries around and Sherlock wasn’t fussed about food anyway. John bought a croissant and a muffin for himself and a pastry for Sherlock to at least make him eat something, and then they ambled down the cobblestone streets of Edinburgh’s old town.

They wandered past the Elephant café, where the first Harry Potter book had allegedly been written and where several dozen tourists were queueing to get in, and past the statue of Bobby the dog, where they just managed to beat a group of Japanese tourists and a French school class before they reached the dog so they could rub his already shiny nose for good luck.

“I heard that if you rub his nose once, you are certain to come back to this city at some point in your life,” Sherlock said. “I rubbed it the first time I was here, but I never could have imagined I would come back under these circumstances.” He glanced down at John. “I never expected I could be so happy.”

John smiled softly and wished he could grasp his hand and squeeze it, but they were both overly conscious of all the people around them. And while they were not as notorious here as they were in London, you never knew who might be watching.

“I’m glad,” he said softly. “And I never would have expected to be this happy, either. I’m glad I got to come back here with you.”

Sherlock smiled and inclined his head towards the other side of the road. John nodded and they crossed at the zebra crossing and then the traffic light.

“Well,” John said, “you wanted to go to the museum. Here it is.”

“And we’re at the right entrance, too,” Sherlock said happily. “I love going in this way. You get to walk through these rather ordinary rooms and then you step into the large, beautiful hall. It’s one of my favourite places in the city.”

John smiled - he had already noticed that Sherlock had a decidedly soft spot for beautiful architecture, particularly if it happened to be part of a museum. The rhapsody he had waxed about the Natural History Museum’s Hinze Hall had been quite enough to drive that point home and it was nice to see that the appreciation extended all the way to Edinburgh.

They strolled through the museum, stopping here and there to take in particular items on display that caught their eye. John spent several long minutes admiring a Venetian mask that was covered in a print like music sheets, black lines and notes all over the creamy white of the mask itself, its edges and corners decorated with little bells.

Of course they did find Dolly the cloned sheep at some point and Sherlock spent quite some time examining it from every angle and giving John a quiet but rather long lecture on all the cloning he knew the Baskerville lot to be involved in. “To them, this sheep wouldn’t be anything out of the ordinary now, of course,” he said. “But when they first managed it, Mycroft got so excited he actually called to tell me because he knew I’d be interested.”

“And were you?”

“Oh yes. I am still waiting for them to get on with the human cloning. Of course there are all these regulations and laws and whatnot, but as Dr Stapleton told us back in Baskerville: if you can imagine it, someone is probably doing it. So I’m always waiting for that one case to land in my lap. Can you imagine it? A cloned killer? What on earth would that do to forensics? How do you prove who did the deed? It would be a most fascinating puzzle to work on.”

John snorted. “Of course you’d consider it in the context of crime. The advancements to medicine are what have me excited. Imagine being able to grow personalised donor organs for people who need them. There’d be no risk of the immune system rejecting it, transplant patients would be at a much lower risk of death or serious adverse events. It would completely revolutionise healthcare.”

“And of course the NHS would never be able to afford it,” Sherlock added dryly. “I’ve been telling Mycroft for years he needs to get more involved in budget decisions. It’s a disgrace, and that’s before we look at all the cuts to the police force.”

They both grimaced - they had heard Lestrade go on plenty of rants on the subject already. Trying to lead a murder investigation while there was some big event going on in the city had turned into a logistical nightmare more than once as vital forces were needed elsewhere and important funds got redirected.

“Well, if you can manage to get Mycroft more involved in that, I think it’d do a lot of good,” John said. “And he does owe us a gigantic favour for letting the media loose on us in the way he did.”

Sherlock smirked. “You’re right. Perhaps we should use this to pressure him into bettering society as a whole.”

They plotted their way through the museum, speaking in low voices so no other visitors could overhear them, and stopped to take in the other pieces on exhibition.

Before they knew it, four hours had passed and they got ready to leave.

“Where to next?” John asked.

Sherlock shrugged. “Let’s walk towards Princes Street Gardens. I hear they redid the fountain recently. We can go take a look at that and then walk along Princes Street and find something to eat.”

John nodded. “Sounds good.”

They stepped out onto the street and he squinted. “Oh, the sun is still shining. Do you know, I wasn’t expecting that at all when we walked into the museum earlier.”

It was indeed quite sunny and rather warm, even for Edinburgh.

“Do you think this heat wave will ever let up?” John asked as they crossed the Royal Mile and wandered in the vague direction of one of the closes leading towards the Princes Street Gardens.

Sherlock smiled. “Experience and common sense say it will, but the sun glaring down on us says don’t hold your breath.”

John laughed. “There’ll be a splendid thunderstorm soon enough and all this tension is going to dissipate in one fell swoop.”

The look Sherlock threw him was dangerously charged. “So what you are saying is the current weather is a metaphor for our relationship? A long time of increasing heat and tension and then a sudden and rather dramatic release?”

“Yes, that is exactly what I’m saying, I suppose,” John agreed, grinning. “Except the thunderstorm isn’t going to be half as surprising to me.”

“That’s only because you weren’t paying attention to the weather before,” Sherlock murmured. “Whereas I have been hoping for rain for a really long time.”

John didn’t care that they were out in public. They were in a close, which had lots of dark corners and few people in it, so he pushed Sherlock into the nearest corner and kissed him, hard.

“I wish you had said something a bit sooner,” he murmured. “But I understand why you didn’t. And you got your rain in the end. Let’s hope the rest of the world will be blessed with some as well.”

Sherlock, still breathless from the kiss, shrugged. “That’s all right. We can make our own thunderbolt and lighting in the meantime.”

*****

They stayed in Edinburgh until the next afternoon, wandering around the city and even spending half a day at Portobello beach. For the sake of privacy, they helped each other apply sun screen while still in their hotel room, which turned out to have been a fantastic idea because they both very quickly realised that covering each other’s back in sun screen was very similar to the massage oil they used at night and so they ended up using some of it as a rather unconventional lube up against the bathroom sink.

“Fucking hell,” John groaned as they stood there, panting and trembling. “Do you think we’ll ever actually make it out of here?”

“Not if you don’t get dressed quickly,” Sherlock said breathlessly.

They did make it in the end and the beach turned out to be just the right place. They walked along the shore, their shoes and socks in hand, John with his trousers shoved up to just below his knees, Sherlock wearing the tight, dark blue shorts he had bought at Westfield, their shirts open or, in John’s case, across his left shoulder to hide his scar.

“No one would think worse of you for it,” Sherlock said. He kept stealing glances at it, knowing what the shirt covered up and wishing he could reach out and rub his thumb over the uneven whorls of skin.

John shrugged. “It doesn’t bother me what people think about it. But there are a lot of kids here and I don’t want them to see it and make their parents explain that I either got shot because I was in the army or because I might be a criminal. And they wouldn’t know just from looking at me, the way you did.”

Sherlock huffed. “Well, they should. It is very obvious. You still carry yourself that way - like a soldier. Back straight, chin up. Like you’d take on the world in a heartbeat.”

“I would,” John said. “But only for the right motivation.” And he smiled in such a way that Sherlock was left with no doubt as to what - or who - that motivation might be.

He smiled and bumped John’s shoulder with his for a moment in lieu of taking his hand.

They had lunch at one of the many seaside restaurants along the promenade and then took the bus back into the city centre where they collected their luggage from the hotel, walked to Waverley Station and managed to catch their train with plenty of time to spare.

John sighed as they settled into their seats. “I can’t begin to tell you how much I needed that holiday.”

“Me, too,” Sherlock admitted. “I think it has done the both of us a lot of good.”

“Individually, yes,” John agreed. “Combined, I rather think it has done us a bit more than that.”

They smiled at each other and Sherlock leaned in close so he could whisper in John’s ear. “I’m still waiting for you to do me.”

John groaned. “Please don’t say things like that. We’ve got a four hour train ride ahead of us, I would like to survive it with my dignity intact.”

Sherlock laughed but settled back into his seat and stretched out his long legs. “Whatever you say, John.”

He got out a book he had picked up on a second visit to Armchair Books and John pulled one of the novels he had bought from his bag. There were no words needed between them now - everything that needed saying had already been said or would keep until they were back at home, alone and away from prying eyes and ears.

*****

London greeted them with the same blazing heat they had hoped to escape with their little trip. Thirty degrees for well over a week was not something British houses were built for with their lack of insulation or air conditioning. The city - and the people in it - was still sweltering.

Perhaps this was why there were no reporters hanging around 221b when they got home, allowing them to get out of the cab and walk to their own front door without anyone trying to ambush them for photographs or to ask intrusive questions. Mrs Hudson greeted them with tight hugs and kisses to their cheeks as soon as they were through the door.

“Those terrible reporters all disappeared within a day of you leaving. I’m not sure if they found out you had gone or if someone called them away. I wouldn’t put it past your brother to lay a false trail but I have seen neither hide nor hair of them since then.”

That was good news, no matter how you looked at it, and they settled back into 221b with no small sense of relief at knowing their home was secure for the time being.

Much like London, their flat was still just as stifling hot as it had been when they had left it. It was already evening when they arrived but they could still tell that the day had been uncomfortably hot and so they opened every window in the flat to get some sort of air circulation going while they unpacked their things.

John went downstairs to 221c to do the laundry, as Mrs Hudson had finally given up on getting more tenants and now kept her washing machine and tumble-dryer there. In the meantime, Sherlock busied himself in the kitchen and produced some more lemonade. To no one’s surprise, Mycroft had sent someone by the flat during the day to restock their fridge and food cupboard in anticipation of their return.

“It’s like still being in a hotel,” John remarked as he came back upstairs and found Sherlock in the midst of pressing a truly mind-boggling number of lemons. “Does your brother know we are perfectly capable of going grocery shopping ourselves?”

“Know? Yes. Care? No.” Sherlock shrugged and reached for the next lemon. “I don’t mind. This is one aspect of our lives he is welcome to micromanage. He knows which brands we like and makes sure to bring them. It saves us time and money and he gets to feel important, so it’s a win-win situation for everyone involved.”

John had to concede that point. He found the day’s newspaper on the kitchen table and began leafing through it.

“Not a thing about us,” he noted, surprised. “Do you think they got bored?”

“More likely the investigation is stalled at the moment and they got distracted by something else that was shiny or gory. Or both.”

John smiled. “Yeah, probably. God, remember that one jewellery robbery Lestrade asked us to help with? That was definitely both.” He grimaced at the memory.

Sherlock made a face. “Let’s not remember that one. It was dreadfully boring once we got over the gory crime scene.”

“Fair,” John said and put the paper away. “Do you need help with the lemons?”

“Please.”

They spent the next hour companionably squeezing out lemons and a handful of oranges and John watched with a mix of amusement and fondness as Sherlock mixed the lemonade with the same serious expression he wore when handling dangerous chemicals.

Mycroft had clearly done his research because they even found a pack of ice cubes in the freezer.

Sherlock poured them their drinks, sprinkled some mint leaves on top and lifted his glass. “To a perfect getaway.”

John smiled. “To you.”

Sherlock blushed, clearly pleased, and looked rather bashful as they clinked their glasses. Still, he made a counter-suggestion: “To us.”


	25. Chapter 25

“How do you feel about being back?” John asked that night as they lay in bed. They had curled up on their sides, facing each other on top of the blankets so they could get as much air in through the open window as possible. He had noticed that Sherlock had grown a bit more quiet as the evening progressed and had decided to wait until they were in bed and shrouded in darkness before he broached the topic.

Sherlock sighed. “I don’t know. I really enjoyed Edinburgh, John. It was exactly what we needed, when we needed it. Every moment there was wonderful and I will always treasure the memory of it. But I won’t pretend that I didn’t miss London, even though we weren’t gone for long. It seems wrong to be away from home during such an important time in our ... our relationship. And I didn’t ever even think we would have such a thing, so to be here at all now is surreal to me.”

He frowned. “I wish I could just let you into my head so you can feel all of this for yourself because I rather fear I am lacking the words to explain how I feel about this. All I know is that I’m sad, and happy, and more content than I have ever been, and I want to stay that way for as long as I possibly can.”

John smiled and laced their fingers together. “That’s all right. I admit I was worried about coming back here - it was nice to walk through Edinburgh without having to worry about reporters breathing down our necks all the time, or the police asking questions. I hate that we still had to be so cautious, but it’s so soon after her death - I don’t want people to get the wrong impression about us. I want them to see our relationship on its own merits, without her death overshadowing it the way it certainly would if anyone found out now.”

“I know,” Sherlock assured him. “It’s fine, John. I want to shout it from the rooftops - or at least part of me wants to - but mostly I just want people to leave us the hell alone so we can figure this out. I want to enjoy this and I’m afraid we won’t be able to do that if we end up hounded by reporters and paparazzi wherever we go.”

John nodded seriously. “So ... we don’t tell anyone?” he asked cautiously. “Because we could tell them, if you want. Lestrade and the others, I mean. Mrs Hudson knows, I’m sure, and we never even tried to keep it from your brother.”

“Molly knows as well,” Sherlock admitted. “Mainly because I kept going to her for advise, no matter how unwittingly. But Lestrade...” He hesitated.

“Greg doesn’t know,” John said. “He might suspect, but he doesn’t know.”

“Oh, he certainly knows how I feel,” Sherlock said. “Has done for ages. I asked him for help writing my best man speech. If he didn’t know before that, he knew then. But he doesn’t know we’re together. He doesn’t know you feel the same way. He might hope for it, but he doesn’t know for sure.”

A truly devilish smile spread on his face. “Here’s an idea ... let’s see how long it takes until he notices.”

John grinned back. “What, you want to deliberately keep it from him?”

"I'm just saying that an inspector with Scotland Yard should be able to figure this out all on his own, even if we try to hide it."

They shared a conspiratorial grin and John pulled Sherlock close for a kiss, still marvelling at his ability to do so. God, he loved kissing Sherlock, loved his responsiveness and the pleased little sounds he made, loved the feeling of their lips moving against one another and the taste of Sherlock’s mouth. He loved nibbling at his plush upper lip and tracing that damn Cupid’s bow with his tongue and he loved, loved, loved the way Sherlock shivered every time he did it.

Sherlock turned to putty in his hands.

They kissed for what felt like ages, slowly, savouring every moment and gathering each other close. His hands in Sherlock’s hair, Sherlock’s hands roaming his chest and shoulders, and they held on, legs loosely intertwined.

“I want this forever,” Sherlock murmured in between kisses. “I just want to stay here with you and not move.”

John’s heart squeezed in his chest. “I’d love that. I wouldn’t want to be here with anyone else but you, either.”

Sherlock hummed and kissed him again.

There was no urgency in it, no need for anything more, and they both knew that just being back home and kissing in this bed was enough for now. They didn’t need anything else for the time being.

Finally, their kisses grew slower and softer and farther between until they eventually fell asleep, still wrapped up in each other.

*****

They woke early the next morning and were already having breakfast when Lestrade came up the stairs at 8 am, muffling a yawn behind his hand.

“Good morning,” he greeted them. “Good to have you boys back. Did you have a nice trip?”

“We did, thank you,” John said. “And good morning to you, too. Coffee?”

“Won’t say no to a cup if you have any,” the DI said happily and pulled up a chair. “You two look awfully perky for this time of the day. Must have been one restful holiday.”

“It’s amazing what a couple of days away from this heat wave can do for you,” Sherlock said, shrugging. “You should give it a try sometime. Take some time off, go on holiday, enjoy the Scottish seaside for a bit.”

“I’m amazed you weren’t bored out of your skull, actually,” Lestrade said. “I haven’t heard a peep about any sort of crime happening up there while you were there.”

John poured him a cup of coffee and grinned. “Don’t worry, Greg, I took him to plenty of museums and the Royal Botanical Gardens to keep him occupied. We looked at cloned sheep and got some walking in. It was nice to get away from the city and all this mess for a while. I feel like an entirely new person, I don’t mind telling you.”

Lestrade eyed him carefully. “Well, you do look a lot better than you did last week. Certainly more rested.”

“Slept like a baby,” John agreed and wisely didn’t mention why he had been so very tired. “Keeping Sherlock entertained was quite exhausting, I can tell you. At least here in London I can just send him off to Barts to play with the corpses, but in Edinburgh I really didn’t want to risk sending him to the morgue. Who knows what he might have gotten up to there.”

“You do realise I’m sitting right here, don’t you?” Sherlock asked, pretending to be put out.

John raised an eyebrow at him. “Yes. And your point is...?”

Sherlock glowered at him. “Not funny.”

“I think it’s hilarious,” Lestrade contradicted him. “Well, it’s good to see you looking better. All of this mess must have been terribly exhausting for you both. You especially, John.”

“I think we were both equally done in, though for slightly different reasons,” John said, shrugging. “It certainly was a lot for me to take in, but Sherlock had to deal with me being a completely useless wreck. It’s hard to tell which one of us was worse off, in the end.”

“I think it’s a draw,” Sherlock said. “Well, no, I don’t. I think you had it far worse. But I’ll agree to a draw because you’ll argue my corner for the rest of the day if I don’t. Either way, we are back and feeling a lot better for having been gone. How is the case going? I assume from your silence these past couple of days that it has been rather quiet?”

Lestrade nodded. “Quite. We’ve been searching computer databases and questioning all sorts of people we know knew Mary or whoever she was. We still aren’t sure of what her actual name really was but we are definitely getting a better picture of the sort of person she was. There’s quite a lot going on there and it’s taking a while to get all the information together. She was active across half the world, or so it seems, and we’re having a devil of a time getting the respective local police forces to cooperate with our investigation. In some cases we’re just being referred straight to their secret service or whatever equivalent they have and all the classified information they have is, well, classified, so we’re really just struggling to get all the information we need.”

“Any news on who might have killed her?” John asked. “It’s been quite some time now.”

“The trace is getting colder every day,” Lestrade sighed. “You know how it is. 72 hours is all you get before the trail starts getting cold. It’s pretty much dead in the water now but we’re hoping that something will turn up the more we dig into her background. We’re absolutely sure that it wasn’t either of you guys, so that’s already a huge load off of everyone’s chest. I mean, obviously we knew that all along, but we’ve got enough evidence to prove it wasn’t you. Doesn’t bring us any closer to catching her killer but at least we can strike you off the suspect list. That should make things easier for you as well.”

John nodded. “What about what’s-his-name? David?”

“He’s still being investigated, but we’re only tying up loose ends there,” Lestrade said. “Mostly we’re asking him all sorts of questions about his previous relationship with her. They were together pretty close to the start of the 5 years we have on her under her current name, so we’re hoping he might have seen or heard or noticed something significant without realising it. We know he had nothing to do with her death, either. He’s more broken up about it than you are, I dare say.”

That seemed fair - John could admit that Mary had never been the love of his life and was never going to be any such thing, no matter what happened, so it was only fair to assume that David, who had at least had the benefit of knowing her longer and who presumably hadn’t been bogged down by complex feelings about someone else, would feel her loss more deeply. And it had been his child, too, after all. That had to hit hard.

“I just want to make sure whoever did this gets caught,” he said. “I don’t like the idea of some cold-blooded killer walking around. And considering what we have found out about her since she died, it seems fair to assume that whoever killed her is or used to be in the same business. So that makes it twice as important to catch them. I don’t want a killer for hire walking free in our city.”

“They’ve probably left the country already,” Sherlock said. “If their entire goal was to kill Mary, they have already accomplished that and no reason to remain in the city or the country any longer. If anything, it gives them more of a reason to leave. And with the number of planes flying out of London alone, we’ll never be able to figure out who it was. And that’s without counting the many other ways a person could leave if they wanted to. There’s always the ferry and the Euro tunnel and hundreds of airports all across the country. They might even have hired a private boat or aeroplane. We’ll likely never know, unless we have a really lucky break in this case.”

Lestrade nodded gloomily. “Exactly. Our main line of investigation is Mary’s background. Who she was, what she did, where she came from, what she was doing in the UK and if she had any ulterior motive in marrying you, John. We can’t be certain of any of the answers at this point but we’re doing our best. And I will keep you updated, of course.”

“At least the media has let up a bit,” John said. “I haven’t seen a single reporter outside since we got back yesterday and the papers haven’t mentioned it at all, either.”

Lestrade nodded. “Yes. Some B-list celebrity couple is going through a very public break-up or something, so the vultures are now circling them and leaving you guys alone. By the time the dust settles, they’ll probably have forgotten all about you. We’ll try to keep you away from high-profile cases for the time being, though, just so they have some extra time to help them forget about all of this. Sorry Sherlock.”

Sherlock shrugged. “That’s all right. Most of the cases we get aren’t what the media would consider high-profile. I’ll have plenty of other work, I’m sure. And there are always your cold case files, of course. You really let things slide while I was away. Not to mention all the years before I started working with you lot.”

Lestrade rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, whatever you say. I’ll bring some of these files over tomorrow if nothing new pops up in the meantime, all right?”

“Thanks Greg,” John said. “I would hate for Sherlock to get bored because of me.”

“I’m never bored because of you,” Sherlock argued. “That is a complete misrepresentation of the facts.”

John smiled. “Fine. But this is still my fault for trying to marry a woman who didn’t really exist, so you’ll excuse me for being glad if Lestrade here can give you something fun to do.”

“You really are the only people I know who would consider a murder investigation something fun to do.” Greg sounded put out but was clearly biting back a smile.

“And yet you are the one who chose a career with the police,” John pointed out. “I never intended any of this. And Sherlock here - well, he’ll do anything that keeps him from being bored and it just so happens that solving murders is more interesting than committing them.”

Sherlock smirked. “That, and I don’t actually like killing people. Unless they’re trying to attack you,” he added. “In which case I will happily make as many exceptions as necessary to ensure your continued safety and health.”

John smiled. “Thank you. I’d appreciate if you could try not to get thrown in jail while doing so, though. Lord knows I don’t have enough money to bail you out.”

“Yet,” Sherlock said. “But never fear - my brother would be more than happy to help bail me out, if only to avoid the riots he believes I would start in any prison I ended up in.”

John shuddered. “Let’s just not let it come to that, all right? I’d rather solve crimes with you than get locked up for them.”

“Yes, all of this is very nice, but please stop planning your criminal career while I’m sitting right here,” Lestrade added, burying his head in his hands. “I’d rather have you guys on my side than on the opposite team. Lord knows they’ve already got more numbers than we do, the last thing we need is a genius and his henchman.”

John snorted. “I don’t think anyone’s ever called me a henchman before.”

“I’d put it on the blog right away,” Sherlock suggested. “John Watson, army doctor and semi-professional henchman.”

John threw a napkin at him. “Shut up.”

“Boy, this holiday really did wonders for you both,” Lestrade said. “Perhaps I should take some time off and go away for a bit.”

“Make sure to take someone along you actually want to have there with you,” John said. “As opposed to what I almost did on my honeymoon.”

Lestrade laughed. “Yeah, I’ll do my best, thanks John. But I have every hope that if I ever wanted to get married again, Sherlock would at least do a thorough background check on whichever woman I ended up with.”

“Oh, don’t worry, my brother has that covered,” Sherlock said absently.

Lestrade blinked. “Say what now?”

Sherlock looked as innocent as he possibly could. “Oh, did you not know? Mycroft has been keeping an eye on you ever since I started working for you. You may have noticed how you didn’t lose your job during that whole mess after my death. I assure you it was not due to lack of trying on the side of the commissioner.”

Lestrade paled a bit and swallowed. “Great. Thank you for that, Sherlock. And here I was hoping I had managed to keep it on my own merits.”

“You did,” Sherlock assured him. “As far as I know, Mycroft merely interfered to remind them of said merits. Your conduct was absolutely fine and nothing that could be frowned upon. They investigated the case and eventually had to agree that you were not at fault. They were merely looking for someone to put the blame on and make a public example of - it was never about you personally, so they were easily persuaded to look elsewhere.”

The DI slumped in his chair, looking much relieved. “Right. Well, I’ll tell Mycroft thank you then, if I ever get to see him again. Lord knows he’s very elusive.”

“I wish I saw as little of him as you do,” Sherlock muttered. “But we all have our cross to bear, don’t we?”

Lestrade looked at him rather funnily. “How well do you like your brother, Sherlock?”

“Barely at all,” Sherlock assured him. “But he’s good at what he does. I just wish he would stick his nose in my business less often. He does have a penchant for meddling and no idea of personal boundaries.”

“Must run in the family, that,” Lestrade muttered.

John laughed. “I’ve met his parents and I think you might be right about that.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Mother does tend to get herself involved if she thinks it necessary. But Mycroft  _always_ thinks it necessary. Which is why he is so incredibly annoying.”

“This, coming from a man who spends all day annoying people if he interacts with them at all,” the DI said, grinning. “I’ll keep the warning in mind, though. And I suppose that means that your brother will be making an appearance sooner rather than later. I don’t imagine he was happy to watch this investigation from the sidelines.”

“He’s already got his people on it,” Sherlock assured him. “I’m sure he will be in touch.”

“Wonderful,” Lestrade muttered. “Well, I suppose I had better get going then. Maybe I’ll at least have time to get my paperwork in order before he shows up and takes it all away.”

“Oh, he’s got copies of everything already,” Sherlock said, waving a dismissive hand. “I wouldn’t worry about it if I was you.”

“And that’s my cue to leave, before I hear anything else I don’t want to know,” Lestrade said. “Goodbye, you two. Keep an eye on each other, will you?”

“We’ll do our best. Thanks Greg,” John said, standing up to show him to the door. “And thank you for dropping by and updating us on the case. I know it’s frustrating and I know you wish you could give us better news, but I’m really grateful for all you are doing for us already. Don’t beat yourself up too much about the lack of progress, all right? These things take time.”

The DI smiled at him. “Thanks, John. I admit it does make it easier to know that you understand. I’m almost glad things turned out this way - this would be so much harder if she had been a decent human being.”

“Yeah,” John agreed. “I’d certainly be struggling more if that had been the case, so I suppose it all turned out for the best.”

Lestrade nodded and left them to it.

“Well,” John said as he sat back down again. “I suppose that’s as much of an update as we could have expected.”

Sherlock nodded. “None of that was surprising in the least. I’m sure Mycroft already has his people contacting every single secret service he has the contact details of and several more that he shouldn’t have or just acquired simply for this purpose. We’ll find out sooner or later who she was.”

“And I don’t think Lestrade noticed anything off about us,” John added. “I was worried he might walk in and read it right off my face.”

Sherlock laughed. “Don’t confuse him with me, John. Our DI is a good detective but he’s not me. And he doesn’t like to speculate, so he makes a concentrated effort not to look too closely. Much to his detriment, because I’m sure he would have noticed that something was different otherwise.”

“If he did, he clearly put it down to our holiday,” John said. “And he wouldn’t be wrong about that. It has done wonders for us both. I don’t think we would have made such big steps if we had spent the past couple of days hiding out inside 221b.”

Sherlock thought about that and dipped his head. “You’re right. We either would have torn each other to pieces in a flaming argument or just fucked right here on the kitchen table by now if we had been forced to stay cooped up in here for so long.”

John swallowed, completely thrown by the casual tone in which Sherlock spoke. “Uh ... yeah. Probably.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” Sherlock added, “I honestly can’t wait for that - not the argument, obviously.”

“Obviously,” John said weakly. “God, Sherlock, you’re making it very difficult for me to stay on this side of the table, do you know that?”

“Yes,” Sherlock murmured. “Just as hard as it is for me, I’m sure.”

And he had the guts to wink, the bastard.

John thought he could have hated him, if he wasn’t quite so in love with him.

*****

They did in fact manage not to jump each other’s bones, though it wasn’t for lack of flirting. By unspoken agreement, they had both decided to wait a bit longer. While it certainly felt as if months had passed, they had really only been exploring the idea of a relationship for little more than a week and that went entirely against the ‘take it slow’ course of action they had separately decided upon much earlier.

To make up for the teasing, they spent an hour just lying on the sofa, snogging like teenagers, murmuring meaningless words to each other and imagining a time when they wouldn’t have to hold back any longer.

It seemed a bit silly to wait for this one thing, considering all the other kinds of sex they had already engaged in, but something made them both want to wait, to draw it out. The right moment would come and they both knew they would know when it arrived.

John spent the evening watching a new episode of Doctor Who on the telly and Sherlock spent that time sitting in his armchair, cleaning his violin and staring at John from across the room in abject, happy disbelief.

He couldn’t quite reconcile his current situation with the heartbroken man he had expected himself to be at this moment in time. If anyone had asked him on the day before or even the morning of John’s wedding, and if he had been willing to answer honestly, he would have said he didn’t think he’d still be alive even two weeks later.

But he was. He was and Mary was gone and John was back, sleeping in his bed and kissing him and smiling at him whenever he caught sight of him.

Sherlock wondered if his traitorous heart would ever stop trying to beat out of his chest at that smile, if he would ever get used to the joy of having John with him. He hoped not. He wanted to be this pleasantly surprised every single time, for the rest of his life.

He could feel the words welling up his throat and crowding in his mouth and bit them back, as he had done so many times in the past. Never more often than in the past couple of days. Edinburgh was not their home. Edinburgh was not where he would say it for the first time and desperately hope that John, if unwilling or unable to reciprocate, would at least be accepting of them. No, it had to be here, in London, in the city they had made their home.

They had met here and they had lived here and they had almost died here. They had lost and found each other here and it would be silly to even try and say it anywhere else. But not yet.

So for now, he would polish his violin and gently oil the bow and watch John laugh at whatever was happening on the telly, and he would keep his mouth shut.

It wasn’t time. Not yet.

But, for the first time since they had met, Sherlock thought he might have a chance of saying the words and having them repeated back to him. He would happily wait for however long it took for that. He would wait forever, if only John would be with him through it all.

“What?” John asked, having noticed his stare.

“Never mind,” Sherlock said softly, smiling at him. “It will keep.”

And when they went to bed that night, he held John close and breathed in the scent of his hair and hoped John felt it too.


	26. Chapter 26

John woke to an empty bed and a note from Sherlock explaining he had gone off to pester Molly for something to do. All the better - John had some things to do and this would save him from having to make up an excuse to get Sherlock out of the way.

He had a shower and got dressed, had a quick breakfast and then left the flat, humming to himself. He had some errands to run and things to buy.

When he returned several hours later, laden with his purchases, Sherlock was still absent. John wiped his brow, put the groceries and other essentials away and helped himself to some of the lemonade Sherlock had made after their return from Edinburgh. It was delicious, just the right balance between sweet and sour, and wonderfully refreshing. 

The air had taken on a slightly metallic taste outside and he wasn’t surprised when he looked up the weather reports to see that the long hoped-for thunderstorm was finally headed their way. It would break over them at some point in the evening. John couldn’t wait.

He sent a quick text to Sherlock to ask when he would be back and then went downstairs to check on Mrs Hudson.

"Looks like we're finally getting that thunderstorm we've all been waiting for," he said. "Is there anything you need me to do? Any heavy pots or plants you want secured before the storm hits?"

“Oh, thank you, dear. That would be quite lovely, in fact. After this heat, it is likely to be a big one.” She indicated two large pots in the back yard. “Perhaps you could move these over to that corner over there? They’ll be at least somewhat sheltered there.”

John nodded and used two heavy sacks of soil to secure the pots so they wouldn’t fall over, then checked the small back yard for any loose items that should best be cleared away so they could not do any damage.

The light was changing already and he looked up to see dark storm clouds forming in the distance, the sky above London already taking on a yellow tinge that promised a severe thunderstorm later on.

He sent another text to Sherlock and got a vague response promising he would be back after his trip to the lab. John smiled indulgently - he could imagine quite well what that trip entailed.

*****

John wasn’t wrong about his theory at all.

Sherlock had given it some careful thought and concluded that what he really needed to do was thank Molly Hooper. On his knees, quite likely, but he probably wouldn’t let it get that far. Firstly because he feared it might send the wrong message to her and secondly because the only person he ever intended to kneel for was back at 221b Baker Street.

He shook the thought off before it could distract him too much from his current goal.

“I need something suitable for a thank you for a friend,” he informed the woman behind the counter and she smiled at him. “Of course, sir. How about some of these options here?”

He took in the selection and shook his head. “Too small. This is a very big thank you.”

“In that case, I would recommend starting a new bouquet from scratch,” the woman said. “Would you like a romantic undertone or not?”

“Definitely not,” Sherlock said quickly. “She helped me sort things out with my partner.” 

He nearly burst with pride at being able to refer to John as such, even if only to a total stranger. Still, he needed to make it clear that these flowers were absolutely not intended to be romantic at all.

Luckily, the florist got it immediately. “It’s lovely to have friends like that,” she said, “and very kind of you to show your gratitude. Now, let’s see about that bouquet...”

Fifteen minutes later, Sherlock and an outrageous flower bouquet got into a cab headed towards Barts. For the first time in years, he found himself hoping Molly wouldn’t be in the middle of an autopsy when he arrived. Taking a punch of pollen into the morgue would risk messing with the evidence by potentially transferring plant matter onto or near the bodies. Best to avoid that.

Luckily, Molly was in her office, filling in reports or some such nonsense. She looked up when he knocked on the door and smiled when she saw him poking his head through the gap.

“Sherlock! This is a surprise, come in! I thought you and John had decided to flee the city for a while.”

“We got back the day before yesterday,” he explained, pushing the door open in full. “I just wanted to drop by and give you these.”

He produced the bouquet from behind his back and held it out to her.

Molly’s mouth dropped open. “Oh ... oh my, Sherlock.” She stood and came around her desk to accept the flowers. “These are for me? Really?”

“Yes,” he said. “Without your help, John and I would still be floundering around in the dark.”

Molly raised her eyes from the flowers to meet his gaze. After a long moment, she beamed. “I take it your trip to Edinburgh went well?”

Sherlock couldn’t have stopped himself from smiling back for either love or money. “Perfectly so. Far better than I could have hoped, in fact.”

Molly put the flowers down on her desk and pulled him into a hug. “I’m very glad,” she said. “You deserve to be happy, Sherlock.”

He returned the hug for several long seconds. “Thank you, Molly. I don’t think it would have happened without your help. The flowers were really the least I could do.”

She blushed but looked immensely pleased nonetheless. "I'm sure you would have gotten there without me."

"Perhaps," Sherlock allowed. "In another year or two, maybe. But we got there now and it is most definitely thanks to your very useful advise."

She opened her mouth, no doubt to protest further.

Sherlock glared at her. "Just say 'thank you'."

"Fine," Molly laughed. "Thank you. They're lovely. And I'm glad I was able to help."

"Not nearly as glad as me or John."

"Does he know you're here?" Molly asked, turning away to find a vase to put them into.

"He does and I'm sure he has already guessed why, seeing as we don't have a case and you didn't text about any interesting corpses."

She snorted. "So naturally you must have come to thank me?"

"Precisely."

Sherlock shifted a little, uncomfortable with admitting to feeling grateful in such a manner despite his acerbic tone. "Anyway, I had better get going now. It seems there is a storm on the horizon and-"

"-and you want to get home before it hits," she finished. "Of course. Thank you so much for stopping by, Sherlock. I really love the flowers. And I'm really glad you managed to get yourselves sorted out in the end."

Even as he left, Sherlock thought that the world didn't really deserve someone as good and kind as Molly. He would make sure to pay her back in some way, once he found out how.

But for now, he had more pressing matters on his mind.

*****

The air was tense, crackling with electricity.

Sherlock and John stood outside in the small back yard behind 221 where Mrs Hudson kept the bins and went to exchange gossip with the neighbours. Today, they were the only ones there. They stood side by side, heads tilted back as they looked up at the sky.

Dark clouds had formed over London and almost directly above them the sky had taken on a colour so dark it looked like the end of the world might finally be upon them after all. The long hoped-for thunderstorm had finally arrived in the city and people everywhere were fleeing to safety, diving into book shops and cafes or at least public transport if they didn't have a car. The lucky ones made it home in time.

"It's almost time," Sherlock said softly, eyes locked on the storm clouds overhead.

John nodded. "Almost. You can feel all the tension, just waiting for release."

They didn't look at each other but reached out simultaneously, hands finding each other as if drawn by magnets. Above them, thunder rolled.

The tension had been racketing up, up, up, for so long that people were aching for release. And the storm that was almost upon them promised exactly that.

John watched with something that was almost relief as the first raindrops began to fall.

They hit the ground at their feet, dripped heavily onto their heads and hands and shoulders, exploding on impact like tiny missiles.

Sherlock's grasp tightened on John's hand and he tugged, gently, lightly.

It was more than enough.

John followed him easily, wordlessly.

They headed back inside, closed the door behind themselves and walked up the stairs in silence. All the windows to the flat had been closed an hour ago to avoid the rain getting in but the one in Sherlock's bedroom had been flung wide open, curtains billowing wildly as the wind picked up.

Sherlock entered the room first, pulling John along behind him. He sprang into action the moment John had closed the door, sealing them away from the world until there was nothing but the two of them and the storm raging outside, gusts of wind blowing into the room, making them shiver. It was the work of a moment to close the window, though it did little to silence the oncoming storm.

"It's time," Sherlock said again and John nodded. They hadn't needed to talk about it again, had both known it was coming all along.

A matching metaphor for their relationship - a gathering storm and so much tension that was ready to be released.

Outside, the rain started up in earnest at almost the same moment their mouths met.

They didn't speak, just moaned softly into the kiss, hands grasping, fingers clinging, pulling each other closer and closer, holding on as tightly as they could.

It felt almost like a trance had fallen over them, or perhaps a frenzy, as they tore at each others clothes, eager to get rid of any and all barriers between their heated bodies.

Sherlock pulled John with him as he fell backwards onto the bed. They landed in time with a flash of lightning that seemed to tear the world to pieces, followed almost immediately by a roll of thunder that shook the house and made them both jump a little.

They laughed into each other's mouths, hands holding on tight to each other's bodies as they kissed and kissed and kissed, enjoying the taste of ozone on their tongues and the electricity that seemed to crackle through them both.

"Mine," Sherlock murmured against John's lips. "Are you?"

"Always," John whispered back and dove back down for another kiss.

Mouths open, tongues slick and curious, fingers in each other's hair and curving around napes and shoulders. "Always, Sherlock."

They forgot that the world outside this room existed, washed away by the storm that was pulling them steadily along, down a path they had always meant to take.

Time took on an abstract sort of meaning, fading in and out in strange bursts. One moment, they were kissing. The next, what seemed like hours or maybe seconds later, John's lips were on Sherlock's chest as he kissed a path down his sternum. And somewhere in there, Sherlock had managed to grab firm hold of John's arse, making good use of his longer arms.

It seemed ridiculous that they had not always done this. John couldn't recall ever wanting anyone but Sherlock. That long, lanky body beneath his, those expressive eyes widening and then fluttering shut at every new touch before he forced them open again, refusing to miss as much as a second of this. And all the time, Sherlock's voice - panting breaths and little moans, sips of sound that dropped from his mouth without his conscious say-so, involuntary and all the more pleasing for it.

John couldn't remember the last time he had wanted anything more than he wanted to hear Sherlock moan as he came undone beneath him.

Thunder rolled again, shaking the house and the bed they lay on, and he concluded that there was a good chance any sound Sherlock made would be drowned out by nature itself. Well, that was all right. They could do it again in the sunshine.

Sherlock groaned when John kissed down the sharp cut of his left hip bone, obviously remembering their time in Edinburgh as clearly as John did. God, that had been a good time. But this would be better. This was everything.

Sherlock pulled him back up, ignoring John's sound of protest. "Later. You can do all that later. But right now, I have other plans for you and I swear if you don't-"

Whatever it was he was going to say was drowned out by another, even louder roar of thunder. That too was all right, though. John got the gist anyway.

He grinned and pulled Sherlock into another kiss, let him drag him closer and hold on tight, long legs wrapping around his hips as they rocked against each other, moaning breathlessly.

"More," Sherlock gasped, tearing his mouth away from John's neck. "Come on, John. More."

John groaned and fumbled for the lube that had been left out on the nightstand for days now, always within reach in case the mood finally struck them. 

The noise Sherlock made when John touched him with a slick hand was almost enough to shatter his focus but he grit his teeth and kept going, slowly fingering him open and enjoying the play of emotion on Sherlock's face at every stroke of his fingers.

The rapid succession of surprise, arousal, desire and naked lust was awe-inspiring. John thought if he could stay like this forever and never see anything else, it would be enough. A man could die happy with such a sight spread out beneath him.

John didn't get a lot of time to consider the blissful death this would entail because Sherlock, in a moment of stunning mental and physical coherence, managed to wrap his hand around John's cock and stroke with malicious aforethought.

"Oh, god!"

John shook, gritting his teeth to hang on to his control. "Not ... not like this, Sherlock. We've waited long enough."

"I certainly have," Sherlock gasped, slicking up John's cock, his eyes intent. "So if you think you can get out of fucking me now, I'm afraid I have some bad news for you."

John laughed. "Never."

He withdrew his fingers, twisting them one last time and enjoying the way Sherlock's jaw dropped in response. "Fuck."

"As you wish."

He pressed home without any further ado and they both moaned, reaching for each other's hands and gasping into one another's mouths.

Sherlock made a noise that was truly indescribable and that John knew he would treasure forever. "Oh, John, oh ... oh,  _more_ ."

John pulled back slowly, drawing it out, moaning again at the way Sherlock's body clenched around him, so eager.

He thrust forward sharply and Sherlock cried out and snapped his hips upward, meeting him halfway. John thought he might black out from the pleasure of it.

"God, Sherlock, you..."

"Harder," Sherlock gasped. "Come on, do it harder."

John did, putting years of longing and desperation and weeks of frustration at Sherlock’s merciless teasing into his thrusts. Sherlock was his and he was Sherlock's and they both needed to know it, needed to feel claimed in the only way they had not yet laid claim to one another.

Every one of his thrusts was met by Sherlock's eager, writhing body, hips twisting and legs clenching around John, pulling him closer and holding him tight even as Sherlock's hands roamed his back and finally clutched at his arse again, urging him on.

From this angle, it was impossible to kiss, so John pressed his lips to Sherlock's chest and throat, teeth scraping over his nipples and then his Adam's apple. He shifted a little on his next thrust and Sherlock cried out, so loud John heard him above another clash of thunder.

_'There'_ he thought and kept that angle, grinding his hips down relentlessly.

Sherlock shook apart beneath him, mouth open in a wordless "O" of shocked pleasure and the sight, coupled with the feeling of his body clenching around John's cock, drove him over the edge as well.

His arms gave out and he slumped down, sprawled across Sherlock's come-splattered chest and not caring in the slightest.

"Oh, god."

"Mmmh," Sherlock murmured. "Brilliant."

"Took us long enough."

Sherlock laughed, still out of breath, his body still clenching occasionally around John's softening cock as the last waves of his climax subsided. "Imagine how good it'll be once we've had the chance to practice."

John moaned at the thought. "God, yeah. Let's clean up, rest a bit and get right on that."

He pulled away rather reluctantly and pressed another kiss to Sherlock's mouth. "God, look at you."

"I'm a mess," Sherlock said.

John grinned. "Yes. And I'm the reason for it. I'm allowed to feel a bit smug about that."

Judging by the heat in Sherlock's eyes, he wasn't the only one feeling smug, either. "Mmh-hmm."

John did find them something to clean up, though it did necessitate a trip to the bathroom. He opened the window on the way back to bed to let in some cool air.

"God, the curtains are getting all wet."

"It is raining rather hard," Sherlock said, shrugging. "They'll dry."

"Hmm, so they will. At least it was very ... atmospheric."

Sherlock hummed and wrapped himself around John the moment he slid under the blankets. "John, you could have shagged me literally anywhere in the world and I wouldn't have cared one jot about the atmosphere. You could shag me in a burning house and I'd still think you're the best thing since sliced bread."

"Are you saying sliced bread is better than me?" John demanded, chuckling.

"Only when I'm hungry."

"Idiot," John said fondly and kissed him.

Sherlock gave a happy little sigh and kissed him back and they spent a couple of minutes kissing lazily, tongues tangling softly, gently. There was no urgency, not anymore. It would come back, no doubt, once their heart rates had calmed down a bit and they felt ready for round two. But for now, this simple exchange of affection was more than enough.

*****

"Well, our friends will be pleased," John noted after a while. "They've been trying to push us together for so long."

Sherlock snorted. "I didn't realise you had noticed that."

"They were hardly being subtle," John said. "I just ... wasn't ready to accept that they were right, I suppose. And of course then there was Mary. That made everything rather more complicated. But mostly it was just me refusing to see what was right in front of me all along."

"I hope you've gotten past that by now," Sherlock told him, his tone just barely teasing. "Might make things a bit awkward otherwise."

"Quite. But you don't have to worry. Now that I've finally pulled my head out of my arse, I don't intend to let you go again."

John hesitated, looking into Sherlock's eyes and no doubt seeing all the sentiment he no longer bothered to hide. He smiled. "I love you, you know?"

Sherlock stared at him, speechless, his chest tightening as it seemed his heart was swelling two twice its usual size. After several long seconds, he realised his eyes were wet.

"I love you," John repeated. "God, I can't believe I didn't tell you earlier. It seems like the most obvious thing in the world."

"Not to me," Sherlock finally managed, voice raspy. "I had hoped, of course, but I never quite managed to make myself believe it. Well, not until Edinburgh. The way you looked at me..."

"I wanted to say it right then," John whispered, cupping Sherlock's cheek. "I wanted to kiss you right there, on the castle square, and not give a damn who might see."

Sherlock smiled. "I could tell. I wanted you to."

He shrugged, moving a bit closer. "But we still have an unsolved murder investigation hanging above our heads. Or at least at the periphery of our lives. We should perhaps try to exercise some caution."

"Right," John said, licking his lips. "You're right. And it sucks. But I was thinking ... we can probably still have some fun."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"I was thinking ... they all wanted us to be together, remember? Lestrade and the rest of the Yarders, Mrs Hudson and Molly and probably half the readers of my blog."

"Yes..." Sherlock said slowly, not at all sure where this was going.

John smirked. "Well, I was just thinking ... at some point, once they think enough time has passed, they will probably try and push us together, don't you think?"

"Push us together?" Sherlock echoed. Perhaps sex with John had addled his brain; he couldn't grasp a single coherent thought.

John's smirk turned downright devilish. "Well ... you know. Arranging for us to be sat next to each other in pubs or restaurants, locking us in empty spaces together. Luring us to romantic places or situations and then making sure we end up there alone. If we're really lucky, they might try to get us to kiss under a mistletoe at Christmas."

Sherlock blinked. And blinked again. Christmas was five months away. That would certainly give John some time to get over the shock of his disrupted wedding. Surely no one could really think he would mourn a lying, cheating assassin that long, right? Which meant that people might indeed try... right?

"You think so?"

"I know people," John said, shrugging. "And I know our friends. They'd do it. Particularly if any of them were a bit more observant than I was and noticed the way you look at me. They'll want to try, for your sake, if nothing else."

Sherlock considered this. "They might be presumptuous enough for this. You're right." He considered the matter further. "So ... what you are saying is ... that we should just ... let them?"

John smirked. "Free dates, everyone making up excuses for us to be alone with each other? We can string them along for months and months and enjoy watching them get increasingly frustrated while we pretend to be platonic best friends."

It started slowly, so slowly ... Sherlock's lips twitched as John spoke, the corners of his mouth pulling up, and then he was smiling, and then grinning, and then he started to laugh and laugh and laugh. "Oh, John ... you devious, brilliant man. I love you."

He couldn't get their mouths together quickly enough, letting the joy bubble up inside of him, spilling over into their kiss as John moaned into his mouth.

"Brilliant," Sherlock murmured. "Fantastic. I can't wait to mess with them."


	27. Chapter 27

They got through a full month without much of anything happening.

Crime picked up, or at least Lestrade called Sherlock about crime increasingly often, and they fell back into their usual rhythm of crime scenes and visits to Barts and Scotland Yard and post-case take-out or late-night visits to restaurants in whatever part of the city they happened to be in at the time.

As per their agreement, they didn't tell anyone who didn't already know.

It wasn't much of a hardship. Even before they had become official (or even acknowledged to themselves that it was a possibility) they had already been mistaken for a couple so many times while behaving the way they always did that no further changes were really required.

Sherlock still ignored John's personal space, John continued to be completely unfazed by Sherlock snarling at anyone and everyone at crime scenes and life continued pretty much as normal.

Even the press had continued to leave them alone as time passed without further developments in Mary's case and other, more exciting news took over. Sherlock kept badgering Lestrade for information, though he did his best to do it without John noticing. He got his hands on a copy of the case file and went through it with a fine tooth comb, but could not find anything at all to hint at the killer. It had to have been one of the wedding guests, that much seemed almost certain. Thanks to Major Sholto's lack of popularity with certain parts of the population, they had kept the location of the wedding venue a secret from everyone but the attendants. The people involved in the organisation hadn't had a hand in the preparation of the church itself, as the venue for the actual celebration afterwards had been elsewhere.

So it must have been someone with access to the church and knowledge of where precisely Mary would be at what time.

It was frustrating but also oddly relieving. There was nothing to indicate that this had been anything more than revenge, nothing to suggest that John might get caught in the crossfire or aftermath of any of it. Sherlock couldn't in all honesty claim not to feel a bone-deep sense of relief at knowing that John was not in danger. Not this time. If anything, the killer had done him an immense favour. Them both, actually.

Sherlock remembered John's wedding day precisely, recalled his own anxiety over it, the countdown in his head running ever closer to zero, to the final heartbreak.

Instead of suffering through the loneliness he had been expecting, he now found himself falling asleep and waking up in John's arms, usually accompanied by soft kisses and the gentle touch of his hands. Instead of seeing John only occasionally and mostly with Mary attached, he now got to see him almost around the clock and they were rarely separated by more than the width of a room.

Every single thing Sherlock had feared had been turned on its head and left him with nothing but a level of happiness that wouldn't abate, even after a month of slowly getting used to this new reality.

He was so engrossed in the case file and his own ruminations, he didn't hear John until his hands were on his shoulders and John pressed a kiss to the top of his head. "Are you still reading that file?"

Sherlock jumped, guiltily snapping it closed. "No?"

John chuckled. "Uh-huh. It's all right, love. You don't have to hide this from me. I'd like to know what happened, too. Who did it and why. It'd be nice to know whom I have to thank."

"That's ... not what I thought you'd say," Sherlock admitted, leaning back against John's chest.

"Well, it's true, isn't it? When I think about what my life would look like now if she hadn't been killed, I honestly can't quite explain to myself why I ever wanted that. Married to her, living in the suburbs, probably raising that child that wasn't mine without a clue in the world, all while you were still here, without me."

Sherlock tipped his head back in time to see John shaking his own in abject disbelief. "It seems impossible that I could have gone through with it. So whoever killed her may have had his or her own reasons for doing so, but they did me a great favour by doing it. I'd like them to know that something good came off of that."

"I can't imagine it either," Sherlock admitted. "I spent weeks bracing myself for it, in between all the preparations. And it wasn't enough."

He took a breath, reaching up to cover John's hands on his shoulders with his own. Time for another confession.

"I knew I wouldn't be able to stand it, so I took ... precautions. When we returned here right after it happened, I made you go take a shower, remember?"

"Vaguely," John said. "It was all a bit of a haze, to be honest."

Sherlock nodded, glad that John couldn't see his face just now. "I had a stash of cocaine hidden in my bedroom. I retrieved it all while you were in the shower and flushed it down the toilet in 221c."

There was a long, awful silence and Sherlock braced himself for the lecture, the disappointment in John's voice, the anger.

Instead, John pulled him out of his chair, turned him around and hugged him tight, pressing them together from head to toe, his fingers on Sherlock's lower back and the back of his neck.

"God, Sherlock. I'm so sorry, love."

"No ... no, I'm sorry. I told you it wasn't a problem, that I wouldn't ... but I knew I couldn't do it. I knew I couldn't get through it, so I slipped out from under Mycroft's nose and got myself enough cocaine to last me a month and I hid it away. I had every intention of leaving the festivities and shooting up. It was all I thought about that morning, all I could think about to stop myself from telling you-"

He broke off, shook his head.

"From telling me what?" John asked, though of course he already knew.

Sherlock shrugged. "That I loved you, that I would do anything you asked of me if only you didn't marry her. I went to the bathroom as soon as we arrived at the church and tried to pull myself together and I prayed to every god I don't believe in to make it stop." His voice dropped to a whisper. "And then she got shot."

He had felt guilty, in between all the horror and - worse - the relief. Because he had been relieved and he knew it was irrational to think his personal wishes had anything to do with what happened, but some things defied all logic.

"And you blamed yourself," John murmured, voice soft. "Oh, Sherlock."

Sherlock shrugged, pressing his face to the crook of John's neck. "It was silly. I was ... I felt guilty, for being so glad she was dead while you were suffering because of it."

"I don't blame you," John assured him. "It never would have occurred to me to blame you. It wasn't your fault, Sherlock. And of course you were entitled to be relieved. Hell, I would have been relieved, too, if it had been the other way around. I'm certainly rather relieved now, with the wisdom of hindsight."

Sherlock wanted to protest that John was far too kind for any such thoughts but couldn't quite make his mouth work, so he said nothing and tightened his hold on him instead, enjoying the feeling of being held, safe and sound and happy in John's arms.

"I love you," he finally managed. "And I'll always be grateful that you found your way back home to me."

"You're the one who brought me home," John said. "Who took me in and kept me sane and looked after me and comforted me and did everything you could to help me through this. You were ... everything I needed. And you always will be."

He loosened his hold a little, leaning back just enough so they could look at each other. "And I love you, too. But you know that, of course."

Sherlock smiled. He did. A month into this, he did. "It doesn't hurt to hear it again."

John grinned and kissed him and the case file remained forgotten for the rest of the afternoon.

*****

Lestrade popped by the very next day, which wasn't unusual, though he generally called when there was a new case.

"Morning Greg," John said pleasantly. Sherlock grunted a greeting but didn't look up from his microscope.

"Good morning?" Lestrade echoed. "John, it's almost noon."

John shrugged. "Yeah but I didn't actually get to go to sleep until past 3am this morning because someone just had to do an experiment."

He didn't elaborate, mostly because he had no intention of telling Lestrade anything about what precisely the experiment in question had entailed. Sherlock was smirking faintly behind his microscope.

Lestrade grimaced, no doubt imagining something gory. "I don't even want to know. Anyway, I don't have a case for you this time. Just thought you might want these."

He held out a USB drive.

John took it, twisting it around in his hand. "What is it?"

"It's a copy of the photographs from your wedding day," Lestrade said. "All taken by the wedding photographer. We're done processing them and I figured you might like to have them. I know Mary wasn't who we all thought she was but there must still be some happy memories on there. Friends and family and so on."

John blinked. "Oh ... thanks Greg. That's ... that's quite nice, actually. I admit I completely forgot about all that."

He noticed that Sherlock had stilled and though he was still staring into the microscope, it was obvious he wasn't paying attention to what he was seeing there.

"I'll ... uh, have a look through them later, I guess."

Greg nodded. "Yeah, of course, whatever you like. We've spoken to everyone in these pictures. At this point, I'm afraid there isn't much more we can do, frankly. You know what it's like when a case drags on for too long. The trail grows cold."

"It has been two months now," John said, still in disbelief about that. "I suppose I will have to move on with my life at some point and there's really not much for me to mourn. Looking back, we weren't together for very long and the person I thought she was never existed. It's not going to cause me any great distress if we never find out who did it."

He shrugged a little. "If anything, I'd mostly be disappointed that I can't thank them in person. I think I would have been a lot worse off for going through with the wedding, so it all worked out to my advantage in the end."

"That's one way of looking at it, I guess," Lestrade said. "Obviously from a professional standpoint I really can't condone murder, but personally I have to say I'm glad it all worked out all right for you, John. Though I suppose I would have been happier if it had done so without someone dying."

"Yeah," John agreed, privately doubting that it would have been so easy. "But what happened, happened. I'm just glad your lot has finally officially cleared Sherlock and myself of all suspicion. It was a bit tiresome, I have to admit."

"I can imagine. You know what these investigations are like. And we didn't have Sherlock's help on this one, for obvious reasons."

Sherlock sniffed. "It wasn't for lack of trying on my part but I was told quite firmly I wasn't allowed to do anything. And of course I couldn't leave John alone here with a murderer on the loose."

"You did everything right," Lestrade assured him. "I'm just saying, the circumstances were pretty shitty. Anyway, I've got to go now. I just wanted to drop this off for you."

"I appreciate it." John stared back down at the USB drive in his hand. He was rather curious to see the pictures. Mary's death had overshadowed all his other memories from that morning and it would be nice to look back at it, even if he only did it to be glad he had gotten out of actually marrying her.

Lestrade nodded, waved his goodbyes and disappeared back down the stairs.

Sherlock waited until the front door had closed behind him before turning to look at John. "Well?"

"Let's check them out," John suggested. "I've got nothing to do today and I vaguely remember you were wearing a tuxedo. I'd love to see that again. I bet you looked stunning."

It clearly wasn't what Sherlock had expected to hear and his expression softened a little. "If you like ..."

"That's why I said it," John pointed out and stood to get his laptop. He plopped down on the sofa with it and powered it up. It took him a couple of moments to realise Sherlock hadn't followed him.

"Sherlock?"

"John ... are you sure? You don't have to..."

Oh.

John smiled. "I'll be fine, Sherlock. It doesn't hurt. Just as I told Greg, there wasn't much for me to mourn, was there? And I got you out of it, so there's really no reason for me to complain. Now come here, I want to see these pictures with you." He paused as something occurred to him. "Or ... or not, if you don't want to, of course. I just realised ... that day wasn't exactly something you were looking forward to-"

"No," Sherlock said and stood. "No, you're right. It wasn't. But it ended better than I could have hoped for, all things considered, though it didn't feel that way at the time."

He crossed the room and came to sit beside John, their shoulders and thighs brushing. "Let's do it. You did look rather fetching in your tuxedo."

"As if anyone would notice what I was wearing with you standing next to me," John muttered and plugged the USB drive in. The folder opened a moment later and he clicked through to the photographs, double-clicking on the first to open it.

It was a shot of the outside of the church, followed by some more shots of the guests arriving and close-ups of the decorations. There were pictures of the bridesmaids and one of Sherlock, looking devastating in his tuxedo. John stared at that one for quite a while before Sherlock nudged him and he clicked forward.

And there was Mary, stepping out of the car in her wedding dress, smiling and alive and looking quite pretty.

John blinked. "I ... I just realised I never actually got to see her in that dress," he said. "Except of course when she was already dead."

He hadn't paid much attention to what she had looked like then. But now ... she looked happy. So perhaps she had really wanted to marry him. Or she was just that good an actress.

Sherlock's hand was on his shoulder a moment later, squeezing softly. "I told you, John. She would have been a fool not to love you."

"Not as much as you do," John said. "I stand by that."

He clicked forward through the other pictures. He and Sherlock had been in the vestry from just before Mary arrived at the church until after she got shot, so most of the pictures were of scenes he hadn't gotten to see: the guests mingling, Mrs Hudson in a massive hat, Molly looking beautiful in her dress and, surprisingly, Lestrade staring at her with a slightly dumbstruck expression on his face. John smirked at that and heard Sherlock snicker beside him.

There were some more photographs of the church door and the pews as the guests trickled in and then some more shots of the rented, decorated car Mary had arrived in, followed by some pictures of the Church's lovely gardens. It had been a beautiful day, John recalled. Sunshine and a slight breeze, just enough to keep people from overheating but not strong enough to mess with anyone's clothes or hair. He clicked forward and found himself back at the beginning.

"You know, if this was anyone else's wedding, I would have considered it a perfect day for it," John said. "I mean ... look at it. Happy guests, great weather, beautiful venue ..."

He trailed off when he saw the look on Sherlock's face. "What?"

Sherlock was staring intently at the laptop screen. "Can you go back?"

John did, clicking backwards through the pictures until Sherlock said "stop". They were looking at the gardens again.

"They look good," John said. "Very pretty. I suppose we would have had some of our wedding photographs in there."

Sherlock shook his head. "Not that. Look at this." He pointed at the screen. "That window."

"Yes?"

"That's the window to the new vestry. Where Mary was."

John turned to him, something cold running down his spine. "Sherlock, what are you saying?"

"You know what I'm saying," Sherlock told him. "Lestrade said they interviewed everyone in the photographs. But did they also interview the photographer?"

John swallowed. "Shit."

He pulled out his phone and then hesitated. "You call him. It's your discovery and he's used to listening to you sprouting incredible theories."

Sherlock snorted but reached for his own phone and called the DI.

"Lestrade, we just looked at the photos ... yes, lovely ... no, I don't care about that. Listen, have you interviewed the photographer? The last picture he took was of the gardens, including the window to the new vestry where Mary was. The time stamp-" he brought it up "-is from just a minute before she got shot."

John could hear Lestrade cursing despite the phone not being on speaker and knew immediately that none of the Yarders had noticed. Why would they? They would have checked the content of the photographs, looking for someone bearing a weapon or acting suspiciously. There was no reason for any of them to suspect the photographer himself. Neither he nor Sherlock had, either.

*****

"Will you please sit down?" John demanded, exasperated thanks to having asked the same thing several times before.

Sherlock shook his head and continued pacing their sitting room like a caged tiger, staring at his phone and imploring it to ring. Surely it couldn't take that long for Lestrade to find out the address of the photographer and get there to pick him up?

"It's only been half an hour," John said. "Relax."

He was sitting in his armchair, nursing a cup of tea mostly for something to do with his hands, if Sherlock was any judge, and had been watching Sherlock pace since he had ended his call with Lestrade the aforementioned half an hour ago.

"You're very calm," Sherlock said, not caring if it sounded accusing. He couldn't keep still and if he were to sit down now, he knew his leg would be jiggling and he knew how much John was annoyed by seeing that out of the corner of his eye.

John shrugged. "Well, there's nothing I can do, is there? They'll either get him or they won't. If they don't, they at least have a lead to follow now. And if they do, we will hear about it soon enough."

"He killed your ... he killed Mary," Sherlock said, as if John needed the reminder. "I would have thought you would be ... I don't know, more eager to find out why."

There was a moment of silence as John thought about that. "You're right," he finally said. "But I'm not."

That, at last, made Sherlock stop in front of him. "Why?"

Another shrug. "I think ... yeah, I think it's because I don't really care. I've had months to think about this, Sherlock."

"Nine weeks," Sherlock muttered, feeling as if no time at all had passed. These nine weeks had been an unrelenting emotional roller coaster for the both of them. At times, he had gotten so wrapped up in what was happening between them, he had almost entirely forgotten about the reason any of it was possible in the first place.

John didn't seem very concerned by that. "Yes. Nine weeks. In which I learnt that the woman I had been planning to marry didn't exist and was an internationally wanted assassin. But also nine weeks in which I found out that the man I've loved for years and years actually loved me back."

Even now, just hearing these words, no matter how casually, made Sherlock a bit weak in the knees.

John smiled at him. "So, on balance, all I really care about is having you here with me and everything else is secondary. I'll be glad to know a killer is off the streets, but I'm almost certain he had his reasons and that I'll be able to sympathise entirely. I'm more likely to shake his hand and thank him, as I told you before."

Sherlock sank to his knees before John's armchair, resting his hands on John's thighs and enjoying the low spark of heat that entered his gaze at the gesture. He filed that thought away for later.

"Me too," he confessed. "But you know that already."

John nodded, setting his cup aside so he could cover Sherlock's hands with his own. "I do. Which is why I'm telling you to relax. If they've found him, Lestrade will let us know. But we can't rush down there for the interview or anything else and you know it. This isn't our case. And we can't jeopardise this investigation, not when they have finally found the person responsible - or at least we think they have."

"Sometimes I really wish you weren't quite so reasonable," Sherlock sighed, dropping his head to rest it on John's left knee. "We could cause so much chaos at the Yard."

"Lestrade would kick us out in a heartbeat," John told him, smirking. "And he'd probably ban you from crime scenes for the foreseeable future, too."

"Ugh."

John lifted one of his hands and a moment later Sherlock felt the weight of it on top of his head, fingers carding through his curls. He moaned softly, enjoying the way John's thighs tensed beneath his touch as his hot breath ghosted over his legs.

"It will all be all right," John promised. "Lestrade will call in an hour or so, once they've gotten the guy and interviewed him. All they have is a photograph that places him right at the crime scene at the right time, remember? And he's not even in the photograph. If they can't get a confession, they're going to have a hard time proving anything in court."

"They'll dig into his background," Sherlock said. "There has got to be something there."

"Like what?"

Sherlock shrugged. "A murdered relative, most likely. We know she did a lot of dirty work, it wouldn't be much of a stretch to expect someone to take revenge. I know I would not hesitate if something happened to you."

"Me neither," John murmured. "If someone killed you. I can't believe I failed you so thoroughly with Moriarty."

"That was supposed to look like a suicide," Sherlock reminded him. "The entire point was to make you stop looking for something. And I'm still sorry."

John's fingers tightened a little in his hair, urging him to lift his head so he could meet John's gaze.

"I'll never blame you for that again," John told him firmly. "I understand why you did it and I'm grateful you were trying to save me. But I need you to promise you will never leave me behind again."

"Never," Sherlock said immediately. "Never, John. I couldn't, even if I wanted to. To be without you-" he swallowed, suppressing a shudder at the thought "-I couldn't do it, John. I couldn't bear it for even a week. Even a day is tough and I'm doing my best not to be too clingy."

"We have hardly been out of each other's sight for longer than a couple of hours these past nine weeks," John noted. "Maybe some people won't think it's normal but I honestly can't stand the thought of being away from you for too long, either. Never have done. We have always been at our best when we were together."

Sherlock nodded. "Yes. Yes, we have. Good thing we finally admitted that."

John smiled. "Isn't it just?"

He leaned forward and Sherlock rose on his knees, leaning in.

Even now, after a month of kissing whenever they liked, it felt new. It always felt new and he never wanted to get used to it, never wanted that surge of joy and love to fade when he was kissing John.

They separated after a long minute or two, both slightly out of breath but feeling happier now that they had agreed on this much at least.

"Can't we just go back to bed?" John asked. "We can wait for Lestrade to call us there and-"

He was interrupted by Sherlock's phone ringing.

For a moment, Sherlock was sorely tempted to let it ring, but the anxiety churning low in his gut wouldn't let him. He lifted the phone to his ear. "Yes? Did you get him?"

"We did," Lestrade said, sounding gruff but triumphant. "We just arrived back at the Yard with him."

"Did he give you any trouble?"

"None at all, surprisingly. When he opened the door, he took one look at our faces and said _'I was wondering when you'd show up'_ and that was it. He even allowed us to search his house without a warrant. Didn't look like he had slept a lot recently. I think it was getting to him."

Sherlock allowed himself to exhale, releasing some of his tension. "Did he confess?"

"I haven't spoken to him yet," Lestrade said. "Just wanted to give you an update. He's getting his rights formally read to him right now and then I'll go in. I'll call again when I'm done. Don't come to the Yard. I mean it, Sherlock. There's nothing you can do here."

"John will want to see him," Sherlock said. "If only to thank him for getting him out of a marriage he would have regretted being trapped in."

There was a moment's silence as Lestrade pondered that. "Fine," he said. "I'll call you when you can come and John can talk to him for a moment, but only if he agrees. He's not some circus animal for people to gawp at."

"We're not ' _people_ '," Sherlock sniffed. "And we do not _gawp_."

"No, but I know what you in particular can be like when you want to make someone's life miserable."

"I was actually going to thank him as well," Sherlock said. "And to congratulate him on getting one up over an international assassin. That takes some cunning."

Lestrade snorted. "Yeah yeah, whatever you say. Just ... try not to be a complete dickhead, yeah? And give John my best. I'll call as soon as I'm able."

"Fine," Sherlock sighed and they both hung up.

John looked at him expectantly. "Well?"

"They got him."

"Yeah, I sort of figured that out from your half of the conversation. When can we go see him?"

"Lestrade said he'll call me with an update later. He's just about to go in for the interview."

"Good," John said. "That's ... that's good." He nodded, as if trying to convince himself as well as Sherlock of his own words.

Sherlock squeezed his knees. "He'll confess," he said, inflecting his voice with a certainty he did not entirely feel. "Apparently he was already expecting them and seemed almost relieved when he saw them outside his door. Nothing about him struck me as a killer when I saw him very briefly upon our arrival. I would have been more surprised if he had simply carried on as normal."

John swallowed. "Yeah, you're right. His family must have wondered why he was acting differently."

"Must they? He just got hired to do the wedding photography and then the bride was murdered. I suppose some odd behaviour was expected. But we do not know the details yet - I'm sure he will tell Lestrade everything. And he promised he'd talk to the man and see if he'd be willing to talk to you. I suppose there are some questions you would like to ask, or things you want to say."

"Only a couple," John agreed. "And you know them all already. Thank you."

Sherlock shrugged. "I have some things to say as well and I rather suspect they will be more or less the same as yours. But I honestly don't really care all that much, now that he is in custody. I just-"

He broke off, shook his head.

"What?" John asked, pressing his fingertips to Sherlock's chin and urging him to look at him. "You just what?"

"I'm just glad it's over," Sherlock admitted. "I'm glad it was someone we don't know, so I can stop worrying if someone out there has it in for you. I'm glad they caught him and I'm glad I had at least some small role to play in it, but mostly I'm just glad it's over. I want us to be able to move forward and it feels like we would have been forced to always stagnate while the spectre of it hung above us."

"That's a bit dramatic, don't you think?" John asked. "I'd hardly call what we have been doing stagnating."

Sherlock couldn't help but smile at that. "No, but we wouldn't have been able to publicly move forward, either. Not without suspicious comments and speculative looks wherever we went. People are simple creatures, John. They would have seen us together, just a little over two months after her death, and they would have wondered if we did do it after all."

"We would have had to break several laws of physics to pull that one off," John pointed out.

Sherlock shrugged. "I have personally already come back from the dead. I don't think they would have put killing someone at the other end of a building past me. And we could have hired someone, though how we were supposed to do that without someone finding the money trail is a mystery. Either way, I'm glad that bit is now done with."

"You're right," John said, his thumb swiping along Sherlock's jawline in a very distracting way. "It would have been rather tiring. I dislike the idea of us having to hide. But I do like that we can now start our little game with the Yard in earnest."

Sherlock smirked. "You mean the one where we pretend we're not shagging at every given opportunity?"

"That's the one."

His heart beat hard in his chest and Sherlock let his hands stroke up and down John's jeans-clad thighs. "You know, I think I might rather enjoy that. Dates courtesy of the Yard? I'd love to see what they come up with."

"I'd love to see how subtle they can be," John said. "Seeing as everyone's approach so far has always been more reminiscent of the sledgehammer method."

"Well, that one clearly failed," Sherlock pointed out, raising an eyebrow at him. "If I recall correctly, I had to dream about shagging you while you were right next to me before you caught on."

John snorted. "I did catch on a bit sooner than that, thank you very much."

Sherlock tipped his head. "You did? When?"

John smiled, no doubt thinking back to the many moments there had been. "I think it finally sank in when I asked you if you really would have let me marry her and you said yes, because it was what I wanted. But you held me so tightly ... and I realised that you would have let me go because you wanted me to be happy and that was what you thought it took."

He remembered that, too, and grew a bit solemn at the memory of that conversation. It had very nearly broken him, having to admit to even that much, and he recalled being relieved that at least John hadn't asked any further questions. Now, he could look back on it more fondly, knowing what that conversation had kicked loose.

"When did you know?" John asked.

"That you loved me?" Sherlock shrugged. "I started to hope in Edinburgh, up at the castle. I didn't know for sure until you told me."

John's smile was sad. "I'm sorry. I should have told you a long time ago. But that's not what I meant. When did you know how _you_ felt?"

Sherlock bit his lip. There it was, the one thing he had never dared to tell John. Lust had been there early on, though he hadn't quite known what to do with it, how to deal with it. Not because of any lack of experience but because he had never been attracted to someone he lived with, someone who was so very _John_.

"I ... I think it may have started when I realised you shot the cabbie," he finally admitted. "Though I didn't realise it at the time. But ... it had a- a profound impact on me that I have never quite been able to describe even to myself. As for when I realised ..."

He closed his eyes, recalling the precise moment, and then opened them to look into John's eyes. "When I saw the bomb at the pool. I have never been more terrified in my life, John. It took me that long to understand it all - my attraction to you, my jealousy, my need to impress you in any way I could, to catch and keep your attention ... it crystallised right at that moment and from then on, I did everything I could to keep you safe."

He smiled sadly. "I didn't always go about it in the best way possible and I will forever carry that with me. But you are alive, and you are here, and that is everything."

John kissed him again, slow but deep, until they were both breathless and Sherlock had climbed onto John's armchair to straddle his legs.

"You ... hmmm... haven't told me when you knew," he murmured against John's lips. "When did you realise?"

John hesitated for only a moment. "After I shot the cabbie and we went out for dinner," he said. “I wasn't ready to call it love but deep down I already knew then. Your brother and my therapist both accused me of having trust issues and they didn't know the half of it. But I met you and my entire life changed for the better. I only admitted it to myself after ... after you died." He closed his eyes and Sherlock pressed a kiss to his cheek, and then another to his closed eyelid.

"That's what made it so hard for me to move on," John admitted. "I never expected to love anyone as much as you and then I lost you before I ever got around to admitting it, to doing something about it. All I wanted to do was dig you up and scream it in your face. But of course I couldn't. So I found something - someone - to distract me, to keep me afloat. And I didn't question where she came from or why she would possibly be interested in me, so long as I didn't have to think about losing you."

"I'm sorry," Sherlock whispered and leaned in to kiss him again. "I'm so sorry, John."

"Don't be," John murmured. "It wasn't your fault. Not really. You did what you had to do and though it was a complete nightmare at the time, I think we are both better for it."

Sherlock wrapped his arms around him and buried his face in John's neck, breathing him in, enjoying the warmth of John's chest against his and the strength of John's arms holding him close.

"All I wanted was to come home to you," he admitted softly. "It was all I thought about for those two years. And then I did and saw you in that restaurant and I knew what was about to happen."

"I wish I could have spared you that," John admitted. "I wanted you to be alive so badly, but when you actually showed up ... I suppose there's a reason why they tell us to be careful what we wish for. It absolutely fucked me up. I didn't even get to finish my proposal, actually, and in the end she simply acted as if I had and as if she had said yes, and we moved forward from there and I just got swept along by it all and couldn't let go of my anger and hurt long enough to see what was happening."

Sherlock sighed. "It wasn't your fault, John. I was so desperate to see you, I didn't consider your feelings at all, or that a less public place might be a better idea. I just wanted to see you, and so I did. I have only myself to blame for what happened."

"Not for me attacking you," John said immediately. "That ... that is on me and I will never be able to express how sorry I am."

"I wasn't expecting you to be overjoyed, exactly," Sherlock said. "I mean... I was, at first. And then I saw you there and realised it might not go that well, but I was already halfway through my hare-brained plan before it really sank in."

"I wish we could get a do-over of that night," John sighed, pressing a kiss to the side of Sherlock's head. "We would both fare a lot better this time around, I think."

Sherlock smiled into the curve of John's neck. "Maybe the Yarders will oblige us at some point, if quite by accident."

"Hmmm, we can but hope," John murmured.

Sherlock pulled back far enough to kiss him again and when Lestrade finally called again, his call went unanswered.

*****

They did make it to the Yard eventually, much later that afternoon, and they had both had to take a shower and get a change of clothes to get rid of the smell of sex.

After all, as Sherlock had pointed out as they got in the cab, it wouldn't do for their friends at the Yard to figure out what was going on before they ever had a chance to lead them on.

"Are you nervous?" he asked, watching John closely.

"Not really. I just want to know why, really."

John knew his words matched his tone and body language, so Sherlock nodded and left it at that. They had discussed it already, after all, and there really wasn't anything more to say, anyway.

Still, the cab ride passed in silence and John couldn't help some small sense of trepidation as the cab came to a stop in front of New Scotland Yard. He climbed out while Sherlock paid and took a deep breath of reasonably fresh air. The Thames made the air seem at least a bit fresher than in other parts of inner London and John idly watched the Eye spin slowly, showing their city off to countless tourists.

"Ready?" Sherlock appeared beside him, following his gaze. "Do you know, I've always hoped for a murder in one of those capsules. That would be quite entertaining."

John snorted. "Of course you'd think so."

They turned towards the Yard and strode through the sliding glass doors together, as they always did. Lestrade was already waiting for them when they stepped out of the lift on his floor, looking exhausted but triumphant.

"There you are. What happened?"

"Why would something have happened?" John asked, frowning.

"You didn't answer my call," the DI pointed out. "After how eager Sherlock was for information, I thought he'd be glued to his phone."

"Mrs Hudson made us join her for lunch," Sherlock lied. "I left my phone upstairs."

"She hates phones at the table," John added.

"I'm not surprised," Lestrade said, buying the excuse without batting an eye. "If you don't force him to leave his phone in another room, you never get to see his face when he's waiting for a text. Figures Mrs Hudson wouldn't like that very much."

"Can we see the suspect now or are we going to spend some more time chatting about inanities?" Sherlock asked, acerbic as always when he was impatient.

John bit the insides of his cheeks to hide his smile. It was such a Sherlock thing to say.

Lestrade merely rolled his eyes at him. "Yes, you may. He's in interview room 2. Already confessed to everything. Once we pointed out the coincidence of the timing of his photograph and the time of the murder, he became very cooperative."

He turned to John: "It's your choice, mate. I know she wasn't who you thought she was, but you were still going to marry her. If this is too hard for you or you want to go, just say the word."

John thought about it for a moment, trying to discover his own feelings. There wasn't much there - just curiosity and a quiet certainty.

"I'm good," he said, squaring his shoulders. "Let's do this. I want to at least look him in the eyes when I tell him 'thank you'."

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

John shrugged. "What, do you think I'm angry with him for stopping me from making the biggest mistake of my life? No, thank you. I want to know why and I could have done without the horror of those first couple of days." He made a face at the memory of the nightmares, the guilt and the pain. "But in the end, it worked out all right, yeah? Imagine if I had actually married her and found out about it afterwards. That would have been one hell of a mess. If she didn't get fed up with me and kill me at some point, divorcing her would have been a nightmare, what with her not even having a real name that we know of. This was ... cleaner, I suppose."

"Can't really argue with that," Lestrade sighed. "Divorces are shitty, no matter what, and yours would have been even worse, given the circumstances. Well, come along then."

He led them down the hall and towards the interview rooms and Lestrade nodded at him as he opened the door.

"There we are. After you, John."

He stepped back so John could enter the room first, aware of Sherlock just behind him. Of course he wouldn't let him walk in there to face a murderer alone, no matter how harmless the man in question now was.

Jonathan Small was a heap of misery. He sat at the table, a hunched figure, looking tired and dishevelled. When John rounded the table and Small raised his head to look at him, John saw that his eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed, with dark circles underneath them. He clearly hadn't slept half as well as John did these days.

John kept his expression calm and stony, trying not to show what he was feeling. He barely remembered the photographer, had been too wrapped up in the actual last-minute preparations to pay much attention to the man running around with a huge camera. He wasn't sure he had ever actually seen his face. If he had, he had forgotten it almost immediately.

There was nothing special about Small's features but John was struck by how young he looked.

"Dr Watson," he said, looking like he was about to rise before thinking better of it. "I ... I wasn't sure you would come."

John remained standing at the opposite end of the table, crossing his arms in front of his chest. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sherlock take up position against the wall, where he could keep them both in his line of vision and not miss a flicker of either of their expressions. Sneaky man.

"I wasn't sure I would ever get to walk in here and face you," John said. "I just want to know why."

Small lowered his gaze again, the corners of his mouth twisting down. "She killed my sister."

That was not what John had expected, though Sherlock had already suggested something along those lines. "Pardon?"

"Mary Morstan, or whatever her name was. She killed my baby sister. Her name was Samantha. She was on holiday with some of her friends. They were just having dinner at a restaurant. There was some bigwig politician sitting at a table just behind them. She had no idea - she wasn't much into foreign politics. She certainly didn't have a clue that he was less than popular, that this was a rare public outing. He had a bunch of bodyguards with him but they didn't block the view from the window properly. Sam got up from her chair just as Miss Morstan pulled the trigger. She didn't stand a chance."

There were tears in his eyes and his voice wobbled but he kept going. "She just stood up at the wrong time. That was all. Got hit point blank in the head, she was dead before she hit the ground. And that fucking assassin simply pulled the trigger again to get at the politician. By that point, his bodyguards had tackled him. He barely had a scratch. And my sister died for nothing at all."

He looked up at John, his eyes big and pleading. "I spent years figuring out who executed the hit. Taught myself how to code and hacked my way through all sorts of secret agency databases until I found her. And then I just had to lie in wait for when she wouldn't suspect a thing. Sorry I ruined your wedding. But I'm not sorry I killed her."

"Me neither," John said, which made Small look at him in surprise. "You saved me from a terrible marriage to a killer. I'm not pissed about that, mate. I had no clue who she was or what she had done. And I'm sorry about your sister. This doesn't bring her back, but I understand why you did what you did." He shrugged. "Can't say I wouldn't have done the same thing, to be honest."

Small's shoulder sagged. "Thank you," he said softly, sniffling and wiping at his eyes. "I never meant to cause you any pain but ... I couldn't stand the thought of her getting to marry someone and being happy when my sister never will. Sam always wanted to have a really special wedding."

John loosened his arms and reached out to pat the young man's shoulder. "I understand."

Sherlock cleared his throat. "As far as we can tell, Mary Morstan was the name of a stillborn little girl. She never really existed. If you are accused of murdering Mary Morstan, you may be able to use that in your defence. Can't get convicted for killing someone who doesn't technically exist, can you? I'd recommend finding a good lawyer."

"A very good one," John agreed. "Good luck."

He clapped Small's shoulder one last time and turned towards the door. "Come on, Sherlock, we're done here."

Sherlock followed him, pausing momentarily beside Small before straightening his jacket and joining John and Lestrade in the hallway.

"All done?" the DI asked.

John nodded. "Yes. Thank you, Greg. I hope you won't get in trouble for this."

"He had the tape running," Sherlock said. "It's all on there, no one will be able to claim anything untoward happened in there."

"Good," John said. "That's good. Let me know when it goes to court, yeah? I want to be there."

"Of course," Lestrade promised, shaking John's hand. "Glad we managed to wrap this whole thing up, though it's a damn sight sadder in the end than I thought it would be. You take care now, John."

"I will. See you for our next case, I suppose." He managed a half-smile and turned to go.

He and Sherlock stood in the lift in silence and didn't speak until they had left the Yard and were walking along the Thames, breathing in the fresher air there and listening to the usual hubbub of London, now with extra seagulls.

"You gave him Mycroft's card, didn't you?" John asked.

Sherlock pretended to be very interested in watching some tourists pose for a picture with the London Eye in the background. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

John smiled. "Of course not. Thank you. I'm sure he'll be able to arrange something to get him off on a technicality."

"One can only hope that he finds a proper lawyer," Sherlock said, entirely straight-faced. "The British justice system is not infallible and does so easily get tangled up in useless bureaucratic details."

"Hmm, and there's no use in ruining a young life over something that should get him a medal, really." John made sure to keep his own face neutral as he spoke, not daring to turn his head and meet Sherlock's gaze. "The poor bastard is already suffering enough."

"Quite," Sherlock said. "Home?"

"Yes, let's."

Sherlock raised his arm imperiously and a black cab slid to halt only a handful of seconds later. Cabs always stopped for Sherlock in his suit and expensive coat. John grinned to himself as he ducked into the cab behind him, feeling a sense of calm wash over him as Sherlock gave the address:

"221b Baker Street."

They were going home together, just as it should be.

> **THE END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are again, at the end of yet another one of my fics.
> 
> If you have made it this far - thank you for coming on this journey with me and our boys.  
> Thank you for clicking on this story, for reading it and for (hopefully) leaving kudos and/or (a) comment(s).
> 
> Posting this story made the time go by faster in the hellyear 2020 has been and your enthusiasm and encouragement have absolutely made my day every single time.
> 
> While this story is over, I do of course have a whole pile of others already in the works. One reasonably short one (for my standards) is just lacking a bit of a final polish and will likely go up on the 10th of February. Those who've stuck around for a while know that I always try to post something new on my birthday, so I'll keep doing that.
> 
> Thank you once again for being such a wonderful audience, your comments prove over and over again that the Sherlock fandom is very much alive and the most awesome place any author could hope to find themselves in.


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